


This is Where Life Begins

by SideStepping



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Character Deaths, Gwaine Fest, Implied Torture, Multi, honest!!, its not as bad as it sounds, theres fun stuff too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-13
Updated: 2014-03-13
Packaged: 2018-01-15 08:48:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1298806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SideStepping/pseuds/SideStepping
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gwaine is an orphan, living in the streets of Camelot. He and his friends get by, but Albion is a kingdom at war and darkness has entered the kingdom through the rebel group called the Angyal. </p><p>Gwaine doesn't really want to be involved but he may not have a choice. Destiny plays a dark game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is Where Life Begins

**Author's Note:**

> My first fest! And to be honest, I've had an amazing time working as part of this fest - it's been brilliant!
> 
> I love Gwaine (and don't talk to me about the finale) and this was just perfect!! I've been majorly over excited for posting and reading and everything all the way through and some amazing works have come out of this fest and so I'm super happy!!
> 
> A couple of thanks to be made:  
> First to my best friend Dee who I think is ready to murder me considering the amount I've been talking about this fest! But she put up with me for which I'm eternally grateful and I think I owe her chocolate. 
> 
> Next to the mods, [Kimli](http://onceandfuturekimli.tumblr.com/) (Tumblr) and [Sam](http://timelockedincamelot.tumblr.com) (Tumblr) I don't think this fest could have had better mods! :D Thank you so much for making my first fest amazing!! :) 
> 
> My beta [twistofapen](http://twistofapen.livejournal.com/) (LJ) who I think deserves a parade, eight birthdays in a row and to win the lottery and who was the most tremendous beta ever.  
> And to [rachelautumn](http://rachelautumn.livejournal.com/) (LJ) for the read through. 
> 
> And finally to [Zoe](http://onetobeamup.tumblr.com) (Tumblr) my incredible artist, who is not only an amazingly talented artist but also a lovely person too. Working with her has been a pleasure, full of Lord of the Rings, Star Trek, penguins and an excess of pie.

 

****

**_Camelot City – Kingdom of Albion – 23. 12. 2542_ **

It was Christmas time. That time of year when everything was bedecked in snow and twinkling lights; when shop windows were brightly lit treasure caves sealed behind a layer of glass, when every child dreamt of what gifts they may receive. Every child except Gwaine.

Well, of course he dreamt, but he knew he would never receive any gifts. He had no parents to buy them for him; no kind relatives to take him in and keep him out of the cold, no friends to welcome him into their homes. On Christmas morning there would be no toys, no books, no presents at all and Gwaine knew this. But of course … that didn't stop him from dreaming.

It was late in the evening on the 23 rd  and the streets were still crowded with shoppers who had left their buying too late. The snow that had fallen that morning was turned to grey slush under the snow-boots of all the people, but fresh flakes were already falling and Christmas Eve would dawn with a blanket of snowy white.

It was going to be a cold night.

Gwaine dodged his way through the shoppers – his small, agile form helping him to squeeze through the crowds – at most, obtaining an annoyed huff from one shopper or another, or a condescending remark that he should be 'home in bed'. If only he had a bed to be in … or a home.

The snow was falling heavier now and casting weird, dancing shadows on the pavements as the flakes swirled past the street lamps. The streets were beginning to clear, and Gwaine could already see the wardens taking up their positions – ready to impose the curfew for the night. He needed to be on his way.

Camelot City was built on top of a hill, overlooking a plain where farmers and villagers lived. The city itself was a great sprawling mass of buildings and streets that curled and twisted their way up the hill to the top, where lay the castle. At that late point in the night, the castle was no more than a twinkling mass of lights far away up at the top of the hill. Gwaine had never been up there. It seemed the unofficial rule that the further up the hill you went, the richer you had to be. Indeed, down at the bottom at the city walls and gates, there were equal numbers of people sleeping on the streets as there were in houses, if not more. And Gwaine was one of these.

He made his way down a narrow street thatPercival had no streetlights and was shadowed in the day by the buildings on either side, so a thick layer of ice had formed across the cobblestones. To prevent himself from sliding down, Gwaine kept close to the wall on his left, clinging to the rough sandstone and stepping carefully. He saw a warden pass by the end of the street and he pressed himself back against the wall. The penalty for breaking curfew was harsh, and Gwaine hesitated a while before moving on again. It wasn't a good idea to test the wardens … even at Christmas.

The curfew had been in place for years and was a grim reminder of the control in Camelot. By day, all comings and goings through the city gates were monitored, and by night the wardens patrolled the streets – keeping the people in their homes. It was all done in the name of 'security'. Albion was a kingdom at war, and in tough times came tough measures – or at least, that was the official line. Gwaine didn't believe a bit of it, but, being only eleven he didn't have much say in the ruling of the kingdom. He was more of an annoyance to it, the bit of dirt the people at the palace pretended not to notice – the pest they tried to flush out.

He gave a small, grim smile – they hadn't managed it yet.

At the end of the street, an old broken plank that swung sideways covered a gap in the wall that Gwaine disappeared through. Beyond the wall lay a tiny, narrow alleyway, barely wide enough for him to squeeze down and at the end of that lay a small, secret yard.

The yard was walled on all sides by tall, windowless buildings and was the best and only place for Gwaine to call home. It was no more than a few square meters wide but was a hideout for more than twenty kids around Gwaine's age. The yard was ringed by several small dens crafted out of broken chairs, old planks of wood and anything else that could be made useful. Gwaine's den was half an old fruit crate, propped up on its end, and a reject bar stool, between which hung a thin grey blanket which kept off the worst of the rain. Under this was a nest of any bedding material Gwaine had been able to find over the years – clothes, rags and sacks – and as he crawled into his den, he found it already damp from the melting snow. Out in the yard, the older kids sat around a small fire – the warmth of which did not reach Gwaine. They were the ones who ruled the yard and decided who got to stay there. Percival – one of the largest of the group – was the reason Gwaine had this place to stay each night. He'd been friends with Percival before his parents’ death and the small things Gwaine had done over the years, like inviting Percival in for dinner or giving him blankets and clothes to keep out the cold, Percival now repaid by giving Gwaine a place to stay and making sure no one touched his den. Stealing was common in the yard and usually resulted in one kid or another getting beaten up.

That night, the conversation around the fire was dark and grim, and as Gwaine lay in his den – peering out between the folds of fabric – he listened in on the conversation.

“Are ye kidding me?” Jack, the tallest and oldest of the group asked, leaning forwards to look at something. That something was Grant's shoulder.

“Fresh done this morning,” Grant said, a strange leer on his face and the pride in his voice blatant. Grant was well known for being the toughest and meanest of the group.

“You'll get yourself killed for that,” Percival said, his voice softer than the others. He didn't look up to see what Grant was showing but looked deeply into the fire.

“What would you know about it?” Grant asked, angrily pulling the sleeve of his shirt back over his shoulder.

“My dad got shot on sight,” Percival responded darkly.

Grant gave a loud derisive laugh. “Who said I'll be showing it off?”

“That is serious though, ain't it?” Carl, a thin, weedy bloke who looked like a rat, jumped in. Carl was not a typical figure amongst the fireplace group but his place of honour was bought. Carl knew practically every person on the black market and did his own bit of dealing within the yard. “Like, you're properly one of them now right?”

“Yeah,” Grant grunted. Gwaine couldn't be sure, but there may have been a trace of fear in Grant's tone.

“Ruling the rebellion in a few years – that’s where you see yourself?” Kara, the only girl of the group said mockingly. Kara's place in the group was guaranteed from the fact that her parents were assassins. She came and went from the yard. Although not always there, no one dared touch her den whilst she was away. Too many stories got passed around about what skills she had inherited from her parents.

“Give me a break. You've just got it to look cool.”

“Oh yeah, jealous are we?” Grant retorted but he looked away as Kara laughed.

“Grant – I've been part of it since I was born,” she replied, pulling back the sleeve of her dark shirt. Like Grant, her place in the circle meant that Gwaine couldn't see what they were showing everyone. He knew better than to come out of his den and ask though.

“Knew you'd be in it,” Carl said, catching her eye and winking. He shrank back a moment later at Kara's withering look.

“I'm going to bed,” Percival said abruptly, looking faintly sick. Gwaine wondered what it could be on Kara's shoulder to make him so pale.

“Naw, little Percy getting scared?” Carl taunted. Percival ignored him, got up from his seat and crossed the yard to his den. He vanished under its tin roof a moment later.

“Look 'ere,” Carl said, leaning in to Grant. “You don't think you could get me one of those things?”

Kara snorted in amusement but Grant just shifted away from Carl.

“Don't be an idiot,” he said gruffly, and after a moment, he got up from his seat and went to his den.

The group around the fire was composed of only five now– Kara, Jack, Carl and two others who hadn't joined in with the conversation. They were new – had bought their way in with muscle and Gwaine didn't even know their names.

Carl, seemingly afraid that he would be the last one left with Kara, hastily got up from his seat. His den was next to Gwaine's, and upon seeing Gwaine looking out he kicked a fresh pile of snow into his face. Gwaine knew better than to retaliate, though he couldn't wait for the day when he would be strong enough to beat Carl in a fight.

He tried to wipe away as much of the snow as he could but the coldness down the back of his neck wouldn't go away. He rolled over, tugging an old shirt over him and trying to find some warmth.

He found himself drifting off to sleep as he caught the end of the conversation at the fireplace.

“Doesn't it scare you?” Jack was asking softly, “to be part of that?”

“It's in my blood,” Kara responded. “Why should I be afraid of what I am?”

“You're one of the true ones?” Jack asked, his astonished yelp carrying right across the yard.

“Shut it,” Kara hissed, “d'you want everyone to know?”

“Sorry,” Jack responded, lowering his voice again, “I just never thought I'd sit next to …” He tailed off.

Kara gave a small, soft laugh.

“It'll only be a few years, and then I'll have my full power.” It seemed, suddenly, she didn't want to keep her voice low. Her tone was boastful.

Jack gave a low whistle.

“Prove it,” a low grunt came. Gwaine presumed it must be one of the two still sat by the fire.

“As if,” Kara retorted, her tone defensive.

“Don't believe you then,” another voice cut in.

There was a violent flash of light and then darkness. Gwaine realised the fire had gone out.

“That proof enough for you?” Kara's voice was cold.

Gwaine heard footsteps leaving the fireplace and then the first of the two spoke again.

“We're outta here,” he said, and Gwaine was surprised to hear genuine fear in his voice.

“Yeah, you didn't mention you had a freaking Angyal staying here, Jack,” the second voice added.

“How was I supposed to know?” Jack asked. Gwaine wondered what an Angyal could be for Kara to have created so much fear amongst the newcomers.

Gwaine heard two people leave the now dead fire and it was not long before the last – presumably Jack– left too.

The yard fell silent.

****~ ~ ~** **

Two days later, Gwaine woke to the bright sunshine of Christmas morning. The snow had come and gone the previous day and all that was left was the slush and ice on the pavements. Gwaine's den was damp, but he'd found an old woolen blanket the previous day and that had kept the freezing temperatures at bay. Kara had been gone on Christmas Eve morning before anyone had woken up, and Gwaine was still no closer to knowing what an Angyal was.

He lay in his den for a long time, listening to the various noises out in the yard as people got up and either left or moved to sit beside the fire.

The last time he'd woken up on Christmas morning in a house had been three years ago now, and it had been not long after that that his parents had died. His father had been a Knight – one of those tasked with keeping order throughout the kingdom. The Knights were a select group of soldiers, the King's best and most loyal fighters. Gwaine's father had been leading a group of men against a town that had been captured by rebels, but the rebels' numbers had overwhelmed those of the Knights and Gwaine's father had been killed. His mother had died not long after, from grief or illness, Gwaine did not know, but all at once he had had no home, no comfort for his loss, no parents.

Beyond the thin veil of fabric between him and the rest of the yard, he could hear a few people mumbling christmas wishes, but mainly it was the usual talk about where people were going for the day and who was on watch. Friendships weren't common in the yard. There were a few siblings and alliances, but besides the odd word in greeting, most kept to their own private lives.

It was then, to Gwaine's great surprise, that Percival knelt down in front of his den. Gwaine scrambled up onto his knees and pulled aside the flap of fabric, but Percival was too large to get inside. Instead, he just handed across a small bundle and then waited as Gwaine unwrapped it. It was a parcel, wrapped up in newspaper. Underneath the layers lay a few gifts. There was a thick – almost _new_ – blanket, a pair of gloves and a thermos flask, still warm, which from the smell, promised soup. Gwaine stared at the things in his hands in awe and disbelief.

He looked up to see Percival still crouched in the doorway, the faintest of smiles playing on his lips.

“T-thanks,” Gwaine stuttered, cradling the package while still trying to convince himself it was there. He hadn’t had any gifts or presents in _years_.

The enormity of the situation caught up with him.

“I c-can't take this Percival,” he said, although all of him was screaming to keep hold of the package and never let go. “Where did you even get this stuff?”

Percival smile faltered but he brought it up again quickly.

“It's a present – for you, a thank you. Who cares where I got it? Don't pretend you'd willingly give it back. And anyway, you'll be needing it,” Percival said in a rush and then avoided Gwaine's confused eyes.

The silence stretched between them.

“Merry Christmas, Gwaine,” Percival said eventually, breaking the silence, but there was something in his voice that hinted at sadness. He got up and moved away before Gwaine had a chance to respond, and he ignored the looks he got from the other kids in the yard. _Giving_ was something that simply wasn't done. Everyone was in need in the yard – you didn't give away things you needed for yourself. That was the cold, hard truth.

Gwaine watched, confusion surrounding him as Percival crossed the yard and squeezed his way down the alley and out of sight.

Immediately after Percival had gone, the attention in the yard turned to Gwaine.

He pulled his gifts closer to him protectively. He'd have to look after his things – he could see Carl's greedy eyes looking at the parcel.

Hastily, he pulled the gloves on, wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and, grabbing the thermos, darted out of his den and across the yard. Only once he was out in the street and away from the staring – almost accusing – eyes, did he allow himself to breath.

The city almost seemed to breathe Christmas – the lights strung across the streets, the Christmas trees in the squares, the tunes being played from speakers in shops and houses. Gwaine felt his hopes rising as he headed up the twisting streets, the thermos flask tucked under his arm and the blanket round his shoulders keeping him warm. The snow may have gone, but the city still seemed to gleam and shine in a way Gwaine had never seen it do before. He reached the main high street ,which stretched all the way from the main city gates at the bottom of the hill to the palace at the top.

The street was busy with people going on Christmas visits or street sellers handing out hot buns and steaming coffee. Gwaine found a bench and twisted the lid off the thermos. The smell of soup sent his hunger into haywire mode. He was lucky to get one full meal a day and the promise of a whole flask full of soup was something too good to believe.

He made himself drink slowly – it was tomato and full of flavour and it was all he could do not to drink the whole lot in one go. When he'd finally finished, he put the flask aside and looked up and down the street idly, feeling happy and full. A certain shop across the road from him caught his attention, and as he crossed the cobblestoned street his breath caught in his throat. It was a toy shop in full Christmas glory. The window display was covered in a thick red velvet cover, and upon it was a great collection of toys, books and games. Fairy lights were strung throughout the items and tinsel was wrapped around miniature christmas trees at the sides. The whole sense of _newness_ in the items – toys that still had to be played with, books that were still to be read - was strange to Gwaine. He hadn't had anything new of his own for a long while and the idea of having something just for him was unfamiliar. And, right in the centre, among all the other things, were a few small, plastic figurines. They were dressed in great, long, sweeping red cloaks, which hung in plastic ripples as if permanently disturbed by a breeze. The Knights of Camelot.

“Dream on, boy,” came a rough voice from behind him. Gwaine turned to find a stooped old man watching him, a thick brown rug wrapped round him against the cold. He jerked his head at the display and the Knights.

“Face it, you're never gonna become one of them.” He chuckled lightly, his laughter turning into a weary cough. “If only mere, lowly, street peasants could become a Knight of Camelot.”

Gwaine glanced between the display and the man.

“So, ordinary people can't become a Knight?” he asked, his voice catching in his throat slightly.

“Ye have to have noble blood mate, not one of us'll get near that palace otherwise.”

Gwaine looked away from the man and settled his gaze on the display once more. His father had been a Knight, surely he would have had noble blood? Did that mean Gwaine did too?

 _But why, if you had noble blood, were you abandoned when your parents died?_ A small voice in the back of his head asked.

Gwaine shook away his questions and let the small bubble of hope blossom inside him that maybe one day … it might happen …

The man had moved off, presumably looking for someone else's Christmas to ruin. Gwaine look at the toys for a moment longer, his breath steaming up the glass, before he moved on, wondering what to do with the rest of his Christmas day. It was at this moment that he heard voices from the back of the shop.

“Just move this lot out and then we can get out of here,” one voice was saying, followed by the sound of boxes being moved. Gwaine's curiosity, which had always been too great, took over, and he edged down an alleyway to the back of the shop, darting down behind an over flowing skip. Two men were there, slowly piling boxes next to the skip.

“This sucks,” one said grumpily, “having to work on Christmas.”

“The King demands commitment,” the other replied sourly.

“Yeah, and I'm totally willing to commit to anything when I'm being made to work when I could be at home with the family,” the first responded.

“Just get it done,” the second sighed, “we need to get this old stock shifted before the new lot arrives tomorrow.”

They finished fairly quickly, and then, patting each other on the back and offering Christmas wishes, they left, leaving Gwaine alone by the skip.

As he stood up to see if there was anything worth having in the skip, one of the boxes toppled over and burst open on the hard, icy ground. A clatter of plastic on the ice drew Gwaine over and to his surprise and excitement, he found the box full of toy Knights. They were just like the ones in the shop window– their capes rippled, their hair swept back, their features perfectly moulded, and each carrying a sword and shield emblazoned with the Camelot crest. Glancing around for a moment to check no one was watching, Gwaine grabbed a couple of them and stuffed them into a pocket under his blanket. He then scrambled off, a skip in his step as he thought about how _well_ this Christmas was going. He hadn't been this fortunate in years and it was a strange feeling. Presents, new toys … even the old man's pessimistic words seemed to not matter now.

Flicking his too-long hair out of his face, Gwaine sauntered off down the street.

****~ ~ ~**  
**

That night, the mood in the yard was strangely light. Perhaps Christmas had played some magic or maybe it was merely the absence of Kara that lifted the mood. Gwaine noticed, with a slight moment of disappointment, that Percival was not in the yard that night. He could just be late back, Gwaine reasoned.

He settled into his den, a piece of bread from the bakery cast offs that day in his hands and as he lay there in the semi-darkness, he ate it slowly, bit by bit until it was all gone. Then, with a full stomach and a strangely contented mind, he drifted off to sleep.

**~ ~ ~**

He woke to fire. He woke to screaming.

He sat up abruptly in his den as the fabric was ripped away. Strong hands grabbed him by the shoulders and hauled him out of his warm cocoon of blankets. Percival's blanket dropped away from his shoulders and the sudden bite of the freezing night air was just as abruptly washed away by the searing heat of the fire. The flames were spreading across the yard, which was still full of people. Men clothed in the uniform of the wardens were hauling the kids out of their dens and pushing them across the yard. Gwaine struggled briefly against his captor's grip before he realised it was pointless and let himself be pushed down the alley and out of the yard. As he went, the toy soldiers he had taken earlier that day fell from the pocket of his trousers and clattered down onto the ground. He had no chance to retrieve them before he was shoved down the alleyway and out into the street. The rest of the occupants of the yard sat huddled against the far wall, being watched over the guards. The majority shrank back from the wardens' presence; however some, like Carl and Jack, moved forward to get back into the yard. Gwaine understood – for many of the group, all they had was in that yard. And was now going up in smoke.

“Why are you doing this?” Jack yelled angrily, wrestling against the wardens restraining him.

“That's all my stuff!” Carl screamed – more ferocious then Jack.For a brief moment Gwaine thought he saw the glisten of tears in Carl's eyes.

A tall, broad man squeezed his way out of the gap in the wall and nodded to his fellow wardens.

“That's the last of them,” he said grimly.

“You can't do this!” Jack said, “that's our home.”

Gwaine was intrigued by Jack's use of the word _our_. Had the rest of the kids in the yard meant more to Jack than he'd let on?

However, events were moving too fast for Gwaine to wonder about this any longer and his captor had shoved him down against the wall. The icy wetness on the street seeped through his trousers and through the holey soles of his boots. He wrapped his arms around himself as he began to shake violently from the cold.

“You're all under arrest for suspected cooperation with rebel groups,” the man who Gwaine took to be the leader said.

“Are you mad? We're just kids!” Jack retorted angrily. He earned himself a punch in the guts for his trouble.

At the end of the row, Gwaine saw Grant shrink back against the wall.

“Check them – check them all,” the leader ordered.

One of the wardens went to the opposite end of the row to Grant and roughly hauled a young boy called Daegal to his feet. In one swift move, the warden dragged a knife through his shirt, over his shoulder. He didn't seem to find anything and he dumped Daegal back on the ground, muttering, “Clear,” as he did so.

The progress was slow, none of the other wardens seeming to want to move in case the kids made a run for it. Gwaine noticed Jack had gone still and was exchanging subtle looks with Grant. Grant was looking smaller than he had in years. Carl too had gone still, but at a second glance, Gwaine saw his hand was steadily inching towards the knife in the belt of the warden who was restraining him. The warden reached Gwaine and hauled him to his feet. He dragged his knife through Gwaine's shirt but did not seem to find anything; that was, until he looked away from Gwaine's shoulder and caught sight of the chain round Gwaine's neck. On it was a silver ovular pendant with a circle cut out of the edge and his family crest stamped upon it. On the chain there was also a small gold circlet, which had been his mother's wedding ring. These two things combined were worth enough to keep him out of poverty for a long time but Gwaine wouldn't, _couldn't_ sell them. They were all he had left.

The warden reached down and took hold of the pendant, looking at it with disbelieving eyes.

“Gwaine?” he asked softly, looking into Gwaine's eyes with something that was a mixture of joy, relief and apprehension.

Gwaine didn't know this man, and didn't know how he knew his name but he did know an opportunity when he saw one and leaping forwards, he sunk his teeth into the warden's hand.

As if this was a cue for everyone else – the group of kids sprang into action.

The majority immediately got up and ran for the end of the alley – Grant leading the charge from one end and Daegal from the other.

The warden Gwaine had bitten yelled out in pain and lunged back at Gwaine in retaliation, knife in hand. Gwaine was too small and quick for him, and he slithered out of the man's grasp and ran.

As he ran, he saw the rest of the wardens chasing after the escaping kid, some trying to restrain Jack and Carl. Carl had managed to get his hands on the knife, however, and a moment later he brushed past Gwaine, who had paused for a moment.

Jack hadn't been so lucky, but with wardens advancing from all sides, there was nothing Gwaine could do.

“Run, you idiot!” Jack yelled angrily – still desperately trying to escape.

Gwaine ran.

The streets were deserted and silent except for the pounding of his feet and the gasping of his breath. The adrenaline rush was fading now and his limbs ached from running. The cold of the night chased him as he ran. He tried not to think about what had happened. How the yard had been destroyed. How Jack was caught. How he'd dropped the small Knight figurines and, how the one place he'd learned to call home was now no more than smoke and ashes.

 

* * *

 

**_Twelve Years Later … Camelot City – Kingdom of Albion – 13. 5. 2554_ **

The angry shouts of the shop-owner followed Gwaine and his friends as they hared down the street away from the main road and the approaching wardens, attracted by the noise.

“This is all your fault, Gwaine!” Elyan yelled angrily, knocking over a basket of flowers as he went round a corner too fast.

“Was not!” Gwaine protested, bringing up the back of the group and just catching sight of the wardens on their heels as he too took the corner at a flying pace.

Lancelot was between him and Elyan, and Will was out ahead, as always, the first to get away from the trouble. In all honesty, it hadn't been Gwaine's fault, maybe a few loaves of bread had disappeared off the shelves whilst they were in the shop, but the owner had been ripping them off anyway. And it wasn't like he was ever going to eat the loaves – he'd had to dump them as he ran. So definitely no. Not his fault.

“They're gaining on us!” Lancelot said, pausing for the briefest of moments to haul Gwaine along. Gwaine glanced back over his shoulder and saw the wardens, who must have found a shortcut, gaining on them far too fast.

“Split up!” Will panted. “See you back at the usual place tonight!”

Gwaine didn't stop to check if the others had gotten away – he didn't need to. Will had already made it to the end of the road, Elyan had disappeared down an alley and Lancelot had blended into a crowd outside a butchers shop like he belonged there, offering to help an old lady with her shopping. Gwaine took a flying leap and vaulted over a wall into someone's yard. Scurrying silently across the paving stones, he scaled the wall at the far side and up onto the roof. From there he watched the wardens run past Lancelot without a second glance, miss the alley where Elyan had disappeared and carrying on down the street Will had taken. Gwaine didn't need to worry; Will would outrun them.

He scrambled across the roof tiles before dropping down onto a high wall that ran between the houses, and looked down on another small yard. It was as if the people who had designed Camelot City had just stuck houses wherever they felt like it and left small, random gaps in between without any sort of purpose or intent. It had been in a yard, just like the one he looked down on now, that his childhood life had been turned upside down. Any sense of stability – gone. The wardens has come to seek out those in association with the Angyal. He hadn't understood then, but he did now. The Angyal, the resistance to Uther's reign, those said to have magical powers and the most powerful of them were said to be angelic beings …

He hadn't met anyone else from the yard in the days that followed. Days that had turned into weeks, months, years. Over those years he'd grown, learnt and begun to understand why it was he had been left on the streets when his parents had died. The simple answer - _no one cared_.

Banishing the ugly thoughts from his head, he scampered over the wall and onto another rooftop, clambering between the chimney pots and sliding over the tiles. From his high perch, he felt a strange sense of importance. He paused for a moment between two chimney stacks and looked out over the tiled rooftops. In one direction to the edge of the city and to the plains beyond, in the other, up to the palace on the hill. His feelings about the palace,the Knights, and the kingdom in general had changed over the years. He no longer idolised the Knights, gazed into shop windows or looked up at the palace as if it were a wonderful thing. The palace, the Knights; it was all just a grim reminder of Uther's tyranny.

As before, however, his grim thoughts quickly abated as he watched the birds from his vantage point. Taking care not to slide right off the roof, he stepped carefully over the tiles and then jumped down onto a lower rooftop, landing in a catlike fashion before lowering himself down onto a wall. Just as he was about to run along the wall where a few loosened stones provided an easy spot to get down, his foot slipped and he tumbled down off the wall, landing on the stones of the street below, flat on his back, his breath knocked out of him.

Above him, a blonde haired man looked down in disapproval.

“Anything I can help you with?” he asked, his tone icy.

“A hand?” Gwaine asked, a grin on his face as he held out his hand to be helped up.

Giving an annoyed snort, the blonde haired man pulled Gwaine to his feet. Once Gwaine was standing, he took in the man before him. He was dressed in clothes that spoke of finery and riches, with the elegant, soft fabrics and the closely fitted, elaborately embroidered jacket. His blue eyes pierced Gwaine, as if waiting for something.

“Anything I can help _you_ with?” Gwaine asked in return, careful to make the mockery plain in his voice.

“Yes, you can get out of my way,” the blonde man snapped, reaching out a hand to brush Gwaine out of the way.

“Ah, but is it your way?” Gwaine asked, laughing to himself as he saw the man's frustration rise.

“I believe I landed here first, meaning I should be asking you to get out of _my_ way.”

“I haven't got time for this,” the blonde said, taking a step forward.

Gwaine shot out a hand and stopped him. He knew he most certainly would end up in trouble for this but his sense of enjoyment rapidly overtook his sense of warning; and anyway, he could run fast.

“Bit low down for you isn't it? Down in the low parts of the street with the rag-tags like me, wouldn't want to muddy your boots.”

Behind the blonde, Gwaine caught sight of a dark haired man, slimmer than the blonde, wearing a rough brown jacket and a red scarf tied round his neck. He was covering a smile and obviously finding the blonde's predicament amusing. Gwaine liked him already.

“Do you know who I am?” the blonde asked, seething with anger and barely keeping it in check.

“Should I?” Gwaine asked, giving a shrug and gracing the blonde with one of his most winning smiles.

The blonde gave a derisive laugh and adjusted his jacket slightly. As he did, Gwaine saw the gold dragon embroidered on the underside of the lapel. This man was a Knight. A Knight of Camelot.

For the briefest of moments, Gwaine was rendered slightly speechless. No matter how much he'd told himself over the years to give up the silly dream of being a Knight, somehow, being in the presence of one reminded him of that childhood dream. Of the young boy who had stood outside a shop window and gazed at the figurines of Knights. Of the young boy who hadn't given up that dream.

He was jerked out of these thoughts a moment later as the blonde noticed where he was staring.

“Oh yes,” he said, “and it gets better.” He pulled back his jacket to reveal a long thin sword hanging from his belt, the pommel of which had the royal crest stamped upon it.

Gwaine blinked. Then, as quickly as he could, he snapped back into his usual joking self.

“You should have said something, your highness, I would not have wasted your time otherwise.” He gave a half bow, sweeping his arm out in a broad gesture.

The blonde rolled his eyes.

“You must be the prince then,” Gwaine asked, “Arthur, right?”

Arthur nodded. “Now if you don't mind,” he said through gritted teeth. “Hurry up, Merlin or we'll be late.”

The dark haired man behind Arthur, presumably Merlin, scurried after Arthur, who had brushed past Gwaine without another word. Merlin flashed Gwaine a grin before following his master.

Gwaine bowed again to Arthur's retreating form.

“Try not to get your boots too dirty!” he called.

Arthur did not respond but from the way his shoulders tensed, Gwaine could tell he had heard. Grinning to himself, he sauntered off along the road.

**~ ~ ~**

After spending an hour wandering around the city and looting a few vegetables from a market stall, Gwaine headed down through the streets to where he knew Will, Lancelot and Elyan would be waiting.

His latest accommodation was a small rundown building built right against the city walls. It was two floors high but the ground floor had been damaged in a fire some time ago and had been left empty ever since. It was small and definitely not large enough for all four of them, but Will, Lancelot and Elyan, like Gwaine, had nowhere else to go.

Gwaine slipped inside and leapt up the stairs to the second floor, careful to keep to the left side where the fire damage was not so bad. Upstairs, sat around a small rusting stove were Elyan and Lancelot. Lancelot was prodding the worn out dialswith a frown upon his face. Gwaine guessed the stove wasn't working again, and from the tell-tale smell of gas lingering in the air, he presumed he was right. Dumping the vegetables next to the pile of other food Lancelot was trying to turn into something edible, Gwaine dropped onto the half collapsed bed, propped against the wall and leant back.

“Where's Will?” he asked, kicking his boots off.

Elyan grimaced. “Really, Gwaine? Do you have to put them near the food?” He indicated Gwaine's feet.

Gwaine gave him what he hoped was a dismissive look but it only caused Elyan to laugh.

It was Lancelot who answered Gwaine's question. “Haven't seen him since this morning.”

“You don't think the warden’s caught up with him, do you?” Elyan asked.

“With Will? You're kidding right?” Gwaine snorted.

As if to prove Gwaine's point, at that moment Will appeared, clambering up the stairs.

“Wardens are everywhere,” he said, shoving Gwaine further along the bed and sitting down himself before taking off his own boots. “Apparently there's been an Angyal scare and they're checking almost _everyone_.”

“Like the Angyal would just be walking around the city,” Elyan said, giving a thankful sigh as the stove sprang into life.

“Good, food,” Gwaine said, his stomach giving a loud complaint as he reached for some bread.

“Let me cook it first,” Lancelot replied, knocking Gwaine's hand out the way.

Gwaine huffed and lay back on the bed, tilting his head towards the window, through which blue sky could be seen, and the busy sounds of the city could be heard.

All four of them looked round as quite distinctive shouting was heard below and the sound of running feet reached them.

“Get out of the way!” someone shouted and Gwaine sat up abruptly on the bed. He knew that voice.

“Gwaine!” Will protested as Gwaine shot off the bed, which promptly toppled over on its rickety frame.

Gwaine ignored him as he leapt down the stairs and reached the street just in time to see a running figure disappearing round the corner. Gwaine gave chase.

He immediately regretted not putting his boots back on as stones and sharp objects tore at his fraying socks. He didn't have time to pity his feet, however – the person he was following was too fast.

Going round the corner and hurdling a pile of wicker baskets that had fallen across the street, Gwaine reached the next corner, took a flying leap and grabbed hold of the top of a nearby wall. Scrambling up, he then glanced ahead to see the figure nearly at the next street across. Behind him he saw wardens fast approaching. He ran along the wall, barely looking where he was putting his feet before reaching the corner and leaping onto the rooftop across the street. All he needed to do was get ahead of the person he was pursuing. Using the rooftop route as a shortcut, he cut off the next corner and then dropped heavily off the end of the roof, into the path of the person he had been following.

Percival barrelled right into him.

Gwaine was flattened and very nearly trampled before Percival pulled himself up short in shock.

“Gwaine?” he gasped, short of breath and looking at Gwaine disbelievingly.

“Yeah, nice to see you too,” Gwaine grumbled, slowly getting to his feet.

“What are you doing here?” Percival asked, looking his friend up and down. “Where are your shoes?” he added.

“I was in a hurry!” Gwaine said, “didn't have time for things like boots, did I!”

Percival let a smile break across his face.

The smile was gone a moment later as the sound of running feet reached them.

“I've got to go,” Percival said, the apology plain on his face.

“No, wait!” Gwaine grabbed hold of Percival's jacket before he could run. Pushing him sideways, Gwaine shoved him through a solid wooden gate and into a hidden alleyway. He then slammed the gate shut and leant against the wall, waiting for the guards to appear.

On the other side of the wood he could hear Percival trying to steady his breathing.

To Gwaine's surprise, the first person round the corner was none other than the Prince himself – Arthur. Arthur had changed since Gwaine had last seen him that morning and was now clad in close-fitting armour, which moved smoothly as he walked, allowing him the flexibility to both run and fight with ease. The silver plating covered both his shoulders and his arms down to the elbow where a fine chain mail protected Arthur to the wrists. His torso was covered in an even lighter version of the armour plating, which fitted Arthur almost like a jacket with more of the fine chain mail underneath. It was the most stunning amour Gwaine had ever seen and as he looked closer, he saw dragons embossed across the chest plates.

“You?” Arthur spat, drawing the thin sword from his side and raising it against Gwaine, who immediately threw up his hands in innocence.

“Whatever it is,” he responded, “not me.”

The next person to appear round the corner was Merlin, who saw Gwaine and broke into a smile.  “Hello again,” he said, then he glanced at Arthur and realised the situation.

“Oh …”

“Caught up have we, Merlin?” Arthur asked, rolling his eyes.

“As I said before,” Gwaine said, “not me.”

“Check him,” Arthur said to Merlin, motioning toward Gwaine with his free hand.

Giving an apologetic smile, Merlin took the knife Arthur held out to him and, stepping forward, swiftly cut through the fabric of Gwaine's shirt over the shoulder.

“As I said,” Gwaine said as the bare skin was exposed, “not me.”

“Well have you seen anyone come through here?” Arthur asked, his patience clearly wearing thin.

“Not a soul,” Gwaine said, shrugging and trying to look innocent.

Arthur gave him a suspicious glare and then stalked past him to the end of the street, looking left and right.

“What's your name then?” Merlin asked, giving Gwaine a smile.

“Gwaine,” Gwaine replied, “and you're Merlin, right?”

“Yeah,” Merlin replied. “Sorry about the shirt.”

“Not your fault,” Gwaine replied, giving a tight smile and jerking his head in Arthur's direction.

Merlin's smile faded slightly. “It's not his fault either. He's just trying to protect his people.”

“Got a funny way of showing it,” Gwaine muttered. It was common knowledge that the Kingdom was at war against the Angyal, and even though people were being checked almost everyday for the signature tattoo on the shoulder – the mark of the Angyal – it all still seemed very far away inside the walls of Camelot. And after everything he had been through in his life, Gwaine found it hard to believe that the King, Uther, and others like him, cared for anything but themselves.

“The Angyal are dangerous,” Merlin said quietly. “They've been getting more powerful for years and Arthur's worried, more worried than any of us what all out war from them could bring to Camelot – to Albion.”

“They can't be that bad,” Gwaine said. “We've hardly heard anything of the war.”

Merlin ducked his head, hiding a bitter laugh. “They're worse than you can possibly imagine.”

Gwaine was about to ask what Merlin meant when Arthur reappeared, immediately taking Merlin's attention and giving directions as to what they should do next.

“He could have taken any of these routes so we've probably lost him, but he's not likely to be able to hide for long so we should get the wardens to do house checks and reinforce the curfew. He’ll most likely try and escape the city after dark.”

“You should lead a patrol this evening with some of the knights,” Merlin suggested, and Arthur's face broke into the first smile Gwaine had seen him give.

“Good idea, Merlin. You're learning.” He patted Merlin on the shoulder and moved on, barely even acknowledging Gwaine.

“See you around then,” Merlin said, giving a quick smile. As he made to go after Arthur however, Gwaine stopped him.

“What did you mean about the Angyal? Are we really looking at war?”

Merlin avoided Gwaine's gaze. “I didn't mean anything,” he mumbled and tugged himself out of Gwaine's grasp to follow after Arthur.

Once they were both gone, Gwaine stood in a slight daze for a moment before he remembered Percival. He pushed open the gate to find Percival crouched down behind some barrels stacked against the wall.

“They've gone,” he said quietly, and Percival slowly got to his feet.

“Thanks,” he said, and Gwaine patted him on the shoulder.

“Why are you here, Percival? What's been going on?” he asked, searching for something in his once-friend's face. The last he had seen of Percival was the night before the yard had been burned down.

“We need to talk.” Percival sighed. “But not here.”

“Come back to mine,” Gwaine said with a shrug.

“Are you living by yourself?” Percival asked.

“No, I've got some mates,” Gwaine replied, stepping out into the street and holding the gate open for Percival to follow.

“Would they want me there? Knowing who I am?” Percival was looking at Gwaine earnestly.

“What do you mean?” Gwaine asked, frowning slightly.

“Didn't you … didn't you realise?” Percival asked. With a shaking hand he reached up and pulled back the sleeve of his shirt, revealing a dark tattoo of a burning eye wreathed in dark flame.

Gwaine blinked. He guessed he'd worked it out from the moment he'd chased a fleeing Percival down the streets. But it hadn't clicked until now, or at least, he hadn't paused to think about it.

Percival hurriedly pulled his shirt back up over his shoulder.

“What happened?” Gwaine asked softly.

Out of everyone he'd known, from the yard and the years that followed, Percival was the last one he'd have thought to be part of the Angyal. _You'll get yourself killed for that_. That was what Percival had said … so why was he here now? Like this? Something was wrong, very wrong.

**~ ~ ~**

They made it back to the house just as the sun was setting, and Gwaine was pleased to see Lancelot had left some stew warming on the stove. Percival followed him hesitantly up the stairs. Hesitant for more than one reason as the stairs creaked alarmingly under his weight.

Will was halfway to his feet, tense and alert, when Gwaine made it up into the room. “Where'd you go?” he asked, his voice caught somewhere between concern and anger.

“Worried about me?” Gwaine asked, grinning and bashing his friend on the arm. Will scowled slightly.

“Course not,” he muttered, but he relaxed significantly from his previous stance and dropped down next to Elyan on the floor.

“Who's your friend?” Lancelot asked, indicating Percival who was hovering in the shadows at the top of the stairs.

“This is Percival, from back at the yard. Remember I told you about him?” Percival stepped forward, slightly tentative, but when Lancelot reached out to shake his hand he smiled. Elyan also got up and introduced himself, but Will remained on the floor, his gaze sharp and suspicious.

“You were the one they were chasing, weren't you?” he asked, his tone hard. “Just now. That's why Gwaine went out – it was your voice he heard.”

Percival nodded, retreating back into the shadows slightly, but his bulk and height made this difficult.

“Why were they chasing you?” Will asked, standing up, his jaw set.

Percival glanced at Gwaine, with a look that held a silent plea.

Gwaine turned on Will in an instant. “Back down Will, it doesn't matter.”

“Doesn't matter? I find that hard to believe,” Will said, ignoring Gwaine and staring Percival down over Gwaine's shoulder.

Percival hesitated only a moment before pulling back his shirt to reveal his tattoo.

Elyan swore softly, and Gwaine had to react quickly to hold Will back as he leapt at Percival.

“Let go of me, Gwaine,” he growled.

“Just listen to him, it’s not what you think,” Gwaine responded.

“Yeah, and what happens if the wardens walk in the door – all our necks will be on the line!”

Gwaine shoved Will angrily backwards.

“He's my friend, OK? Give him a chance!”

“Oh come on Gwaine, you don't really see him as a friend, do you?” Will spat, his temper getting the better of him. “You've barely talked about him. All we know is he was your friend from the yard you ditched the night before that place went up. I mean, how do you even know he's not the one responsible?”

“Will-” Gwaine began, but it was Lancelot who cut through him.

“If Gwaine trusts him that's good enough for me,” Lancelot said firmly, meeting Will's heated gaze and matching it. “We should listen to him. You and I both know it’s not just black and white where the Angyal are concerned. For goodness sake, shut up and sit down.”

Will looked for one moment like he was about to retort angrily – or do something worse – but then he just closed his mouth and retreated to the bed in the corner, huddling down against the wall and maintaining a dark glare in Percival's direction.

Percival hesitated yet again, but Gwaine dropped to the floor, patting the patch of threadbare carpet next to him. Percival took a seat and accepted the bowl of stew Lancelot passed him.

Gwaine took his bowl and ate quickly, noticing how the other three were all watching Percival with varying levels of suspicion. Will showed outright distrust, Elyan looked doubtful but Lancelot seemed more accepting and was watching Percival calculatingly as he ate, glancing up every now and then before immediately returning his gaze to his food. When he had finished, he handed his bowl back with a silent nod of thanks.

Lancelot put the bowl next to a stack of other dirty crockery and returned his gaze to Percival, looking expectant.

“You need to explain some things to us,” Elyan said. Gwaine, who hadn't quite finished eating, dropped his bowl to the floor, suddenly not hungry anymore.

“Where do I start?” Percival asked, fiddling with his shirt.

“From the beginning,” Lancelot replied evenly.

“It's a long story,” Percival warned.

“We're listening,” Will responded sharply from the corner.

Percival nodded once to himself and then pinched the bridge of his nose between his eyes.

“My parents were caught in the fighting at Yaedal. We'd only been there a short time but we were stuck in the city.” Percival's voice was hoarse but toneless, as if he were just reciting a list of facts. Gwaine blinked at the news. He had not known Percival had been at Yaedal. It had been the last city on the road before the border of Albion and one of the first to be built after the Great Wars which had wrecked the land years before. It had been founded on the pain of the Wars and had not known the prosperity that Camelot had – its trading routes had not flourished and the people had been discontented, angry at Camelot for not providing aid when it was needed. Yet another of Uther's decisions made in his own interests and not for the good of his people. Yaedal had been the first to fall to Angyal leadership and only then had Uther acted. War had been declared and the Knights sent in to neutralise the threat.

“My dad had joined up to keep me and my mum safe. The Angyal were taking over and anyone who said no got executed. I was only six. I just didn't understand. Especially when the Knights broke through our door and killed my dad and my mum. Anyone with connections to the Angyal … and then anyone with connections to them,” Percival added bitterly.

“How did you survive?” Elyan asked.

“Something in them must have felt pity on a six-year-old,” Percival replied, then shrugged. “Not that that pity extended far. They left me in the streets of a ruined city without parents, a home – anything.”

“So what happened then?” Lancelot asked, his eyes searching for something behind Percival's expressionless facade.

“Some travellers took pity on me and brought me to Camelot. I've been here ever since,” Percival replied with a shrug.

“It must have been hard,” Lancelot said softly.

“Gwaine's parents helped me … I got by.” Percival sighed and looked down at his hands.

Gwaine was staring at his friend like he'd never seen him before. He had no idea Percival had gone through so much.

“So what then?” came Will's voice – still taut and distrustful from the corner of the room. “How'd you end up like this?”

“The day I left the yard … I knew something bad was going to happen. Kara had been there. She was part of the Angyal,” he added as explanation to Will, Lancelot and Elyan. “And we all knew. I knew I was in danger – I'd outright opposed it. And the others … Well, it was Kara. I guess she thought it was funny to tell the wardens where you all were …”

It took Gwaine a moment to register the meaning of Percival's words. So it had been Kara … Kara who had sold them out to the wardens. Kara's fault that they'd all lost what little home they'd had …

“So it wasn't you,” he said, his voice restricted.

“Did you think it was?” Percival asked.

“I dunno, it seemed strange that you'd disappeared that morning, after giving me the gifts and everything. But now, I guess, it makes sense.”

“I wanted to make sure you'd have enough to fend for yourself. I couldn't do much more and the others would get suspicious if I took you with me. I'm sorry.” From Percival's expression Gwaine knew he was sincere. Gwaine patted him on the arm to show him it was alright. He didn't blame him. Percival gave the briefest of smiles.

“Then what happened?” Elyan asked, less suspicious than he had been before but still looking wary of Percival.

“I left Camelot, travelled a bit, but then they caught up with me. The Angyal. Worked out who I was, who my dad had been. And then …” He pulled a face and absent-mindedly pulled at the fraying carpet.

“So you've been working with them?” Lancelot asked.

“Don't really have a choice, do I?” Percival asked. “Once you have one of these things”- he gestured at his shoulder- “you're an outlaw. Besides the Angyal, you have no life.”

The room fell to silence.

“I didn't realise they were so powerful, the Angyal,” Gwaine said.

“It's worse than you think. You're all very _protected_ here. Protected from the truth. The world is at war outside Camelot's walls but what do you hear of it here?”

“A little,” Elyan replied.

“Not the full picture,” Percival responded. “The Angyal are winning and Camelot's running scared.”

Silence fell again until Percival got to his feet.

“I should be going,” he said, “I'm putting you in danger here.”

“No, stay,” Gwaine said, suddenly aware that he could lose his friend all over again. From what he now knew, he didn't want Percival to have to go through anything else on his own again.

“Gwaine.” Percival hesitated for a moment. “Thank you for the offer … but I can't.” He glanced over at Will. “I'm not sure if I'd be welcome anyway.”

He moved to the head of the stairs, and Gwaine scrambled to his feet to follow him. Before he could stop Percival however, Will spoke from his position in the shadows.

“Stay.”

Percival stopped where he was, his face half hopeful, half disbelieving.

“You may as well,” Will shrugged. “They'll be patrolling the streets tonight and getting caught won't be doing anyone any favours.”

Percival nodded his thanks and awkwardly moved back into the room.

Beyond the window, night had fallen over Camelot, and it was Lancelot who quietly mumbled something about sleep. Gwaine realised how tired he was. Either because of the surprises of the day or the knowledge Percival had presented them, he felt slightly overwhelmed.

They rolled dice to see who would win the bed – Elyan did – and Gwaine and Percival grabbed blankets before stretching out near the stove for warmth. Lancelot and Will fixed hammocks up to the ceiling and settled down.

In the near complete darkness, Gwaine waited until he could hear the familiar sound of his three friends breathing which signified they were asleep, then rolled over and poked Percival. Unsurprisingly he was still awake, and he turned to Gwaine, his expression questioning.

“There's something you didn't say earlier,” Gwaine whispered. “Why have you come back?”

Percival was quiet for a moment.

“In the Angyal, we're assigned to teams. When you're as low down as I am in the ranks it's just generally causing mayhem, but we met up with one of the other teams recently and Kara was with them; you remember her?”

Gwaine nodded, something twisting inside him as he remembered it was Kara who had seen to the destruction of the yard.

“Well she saw me … and Carl, remember him?” Gwaine nodded again. “Saw us, remembered us, and switched groups. It was her who made us come here, of course. Seemed to think she was going to kill Prince Arthur.” Gwaine jolted where he lay but Percival carried on. “Ridiculous? Yeah, I know. Anyway, she seemed to have something in it for us, me and Carl. Making us come to Camelot - the most dangerous place for anyone like us to be. I guess she finds it funny …” Percival tailed off, looking grim. Gwaine found himself thinking about the prince, and how he might be dead soon.

“What?” Percival asked, confused by Gwaine's thoughtful expression.

“Oh, it's just about Arthur … I've met him,” Gwaine replied.

“Jerk, was he?” Percival asked.

“Yeah …” Gwaine replied, catching himself thinking about how he could warn Arthur that Kara was after him. Its wasn't that he was on Arthur's side, he told himself firmly; he just didn't want to see the guy dead.

“You're not saying you actually liked him?” Percival asked incredulously.

“He seemed OK,” Gwaine mused. “Come on Percival, it's not like I want him dead.”

“Gwaine, he's a _knight_ ,” Percival responded. “They don't care about us or anything other than their King and themselves. They're just brutal killing machines.”

Gwaine made a throaty noise of confirmation, rolling onto his back to study the ceiling, hidden beyond a veil of darkness. He knew Percival was right. The knights were just another of Uther's tools of control in Camelot and beyond, but somehow he couldn't seem to get the image of a young boy staring into the shop window, chasing after a dream of being a knight and doing _good_ , out of his head.

To change the subject, he rolled back to face Percival and propped himself up on one arm.

“Why were you by yourself?” he asked. “When I found you, you were alone. What happened to the others?”

“We split up when we reached Camelot,” Percival responded. “The security was higher than we estimated and at the first sign of the guards most of the team fled, me with them.”

“And then you bumped into me,” Gwaine replied.

“Quite literally,” Percival responded with a chuckle of amusement.

They heard one of the others stir in their sleep and fell quiet again, Gwaine settling back on the floor.

“It's good to see you again, Percival,” he said softly a while later.

“You too,” Percival replied.

A moment later, Gwaine was asleep.

**~ ~ ~**

He was jolted awake at some point much later in the night by the sound of the front door opening.

Beside him, Percival's soft breathing confirmed him to be asleep and as Gwaine rose from his sleeping position, he heard voices downstairs. One of which he recognised.

“We can't stay here, it’s all burnt out.”

Carl.

Gwaine steadily got to his feet, mindful of the floorboards which creaked as he moved, almost cat-like, to the top of the stairs, careful to stay out of sight.

“What about upstairs?” another voice asked.

“Stairs won't hold our weight,” a third replied. “They’re too damaged.”

Gwaine grinned. What Carl and his mates didn't know was that Elyan had long ago put supports under the stairs but maintained their damaged appearance. It kept unwanted visitors away.

“Come on, we better find somewhere else then,” Carl replied. “And just wait till I find Percival, he's gonna regret running out on us.”

All three fell suddenly silent as outside yet more voices were heard. And Gwaine recognised those too.

“Kay and Owain, take those streets and work across till you meet the west wall, Merlin and I'll take these ones and work across to the main road. Anyone on the streets, check them and keep an eye out for people moving. The Angyal could try and leave whilst it's dark.”

Arthur's voice was strong and confident and Gwaine was only thankful that he hadn't mentioned anything about house checks. Little did Arthur know he was stood only metres away from four Angyal members.

Arthur and the others moved away and a moment later, Gwaine heard the sound of Carl moving to the door.

“You know what I'm thinking?” he asked, a smirk of triumph visible in his voice.

“Why let Kara have all the fun?” one of his companions added.

They left the house silently and Gwaine was left at the top of the stairs, reeling as he realised the meaning of what they had just said.

They were going to kill Arthur.

He had to do something.

Gwaine was halfway down the stairs when he paused, contemplating his decision. Why was he bothering to help _Arthur_?

Arthur, who would kill him for harbouring Percival, a man who was being persecuted for nothing more than being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Arthur, who followed his father’s orders and punished those with even the barest connection to the Angyal. Arthur, who had pretty much thought him worthless when they had met in the street earlier that day.

Why would he feel the need to protect Arthur?

 _To do something good_ , came the reply in his head and his thoughts drifted to what he had said to Percival. _It's not like I want him dead._

He was jolted out of his thoughts when the sound of shouting reached him followed by the noise of steel against steel.

He didn't really have a choice, did he?

Out of the house, he followed the noise of the fight, keeping close to the walls and hesitating in the shadows before stepping across exposed areas.

Rescue mission or not, being out in the streets during curfew was inexcusable.

He soon reached the street where the fight was happening. Arthur was in the centre battling off Carl and one of his companions, and yet Carl's other friend and Merlin were nowhere to be seen.

Arthur was struggling, unable, it seemed, to get a direct blow on either Carl or his friend. His blows always deflected somehow so no matter how hard he swung his sword or how precisely he aimed, he always seemed to miss.

Something was wrong.

Defending a blow from Carl and using the force behind it to set Carl off balance, Arthur spun around to meet a blow from his other attacker. However, when Arthur made his own strike, the blade mysteriously went sideways, as if blown by a strong wind. Arthur made an angry yell of frustration, having to swing round faster to parry a second blow. Carl, having recovered his knock back, advanced and, timing his blow with perfection, lunged for Arthur’s side, catching him right between two plates of amour, his sword cutting flesh.

Arthur gasped and faltered slightly before swinging round so fast, he would have taken Carl's head off if Carl hadn't ducked.

Gwaine decided that now was the time to step in.

An old broom, leaning again the wall presented itself to him and picking it up, he stepped nimbly up on top of a barrel, took a leap, and brought the broom handle down hard over Carl's head with a satisfying _crack_.

Carl crumpled and as Gwaine landed, Arthur's luck blessed him with a hit to his other attacker. The man growled, clamping a hand to his side as a red stain appeared through the cloth. He glanced upward as if looking for something.

Said _thing_ appeared a moment later as a man's body fell from a rooftop on the opposite side of the street, hitting the ground with a muffled thump.

Both Arthur, Gwaine and the other man looked up to see Merlin sticking his head over the ridge of the roof and grinning.

“ _Merlin_?” Arthur asked incredulously.

In the brief distraction, Arthur's attacker caught his wits first and took advantage of Arthur's guard momentarily being down. He lunged forward, blade aiming for the chest, but Gwaine saw him, pushed Arthur out of the way and blocked the blade with the broom handle. _Almost_.

The man fell to the ground, dead, a moment later as Arthur delivered the final blow. Gwaine registered this only a moment before the pain hit from the wound on his upper arm. Clamping his hand to it he felt wetness, and withdrawing it a moment later he saw blood.

“Are you hurt?” came Arthur's voice.

Gwaine turned away.

“It's not bad,” he responded.

Merlin was at his side a moment later, having scrambled down the drainpipe of the house.

He coaxed Gwaine's hand away from the wound and grimaced. Ripping a strip off his shirt, Merlin pulled up Gwaine's shirt sleeve and tied the strip round his upper arm, above the cut.

“That should slow the flow of blood,” he said. “You'll want to get it washed and bandaged though.”

“I'll be fine,” Gwaine replied, pulling his shirt sleeve back down.

“You saved my life,” Arthur said, coming to stand next to Merlin. “That was a brave thing you did.”

“You looked like you needed a hand,” Gwaine replied, attempting his usual joking manner as he turned away from the man's corpse on the ground. “What was wrong? You couldn't land a blow.”

“Magic,” Arthur responded. “They must be …” He stepped forward and tore back the shirt of the man who had fallen from the roof. The dark, flaming eye stared back at them all. “The Angyal.” Arthur finished grimly.

There was a brief period of silence before Arthur turned away. “I must thank you somehow, for saving me,” he said.

“I can't accept anything, really,” Gwaine said, trying not to think what Percival and the others would say to him accepting gifts from the prince of Camelot. They'd all lived too long in the gutter to think very much of the royals. He avoided Arthur's gaze as he tried to think up an excuse to just go home that instant.

“Arthur, you're injured,” Merlin said, stepping in at the right moment to diffuse the awkward atmosphere.

“It's not bad,” Arthur said dismissively, but he allowed Merlin to step in and unfasten some of the plates of amour to check underneath.

“Barely a scratch,” he murmured. “I knew Leon was right about the new style.”

“My father will be pleased,” Arthur responded. “It could have been a much worse injury. Leon's new style design will decrease injury and give us an advantage. Remind me to thank him when we get back?”

“Yes sire,” Merlin replied.

Gwaine began to slowly slip away. He'd done what he needed to do; now all he could think about was his bed.

Arthur began to refasten his armour. Merlin, however, noticed Gwaine's attempt to leave unnoticed.

“Hey!” he called, jogging over to stop Gwaine. “Do you want some recognition? You saved Arthur's life! This won't go unrewarded.”

“I don't need a reward,” Gwaine replied. “Not from _him_ anyway.” He hadn't meant for the venom to be so plain in his voice and thankfully he wasn't speaking loud enough for Arthur to hear. Merlin frowned.

“What've you got against Arthur?” he asked.

“Nothing.” Gwaine sighed. “Just the knights, Uther …”

“Why?”

“My father was a knight and he died. What did my family get? Nothing. My mother died and I ended up on the streets with nothing. And yet they still find ways to take everything from me …” Gwaine cut himself off before he spoke too much. The emotions welling up inside of him came rapidly and he found himself holding back tears that he didn't realise he had summoned.

_They had taken everything. And yet they had taken more._

“Well, if you speak to Arthur I'm sure he can speak to his father. If your father was a knight you deserve honours, privileges, consolation for what you've been through-”

“I don't want pity,” Gwaine interrupted. He noticed Arthur had been distracted by something and saw him walking towards the other end of the street.

“It's OK,” he was saying, “I won't hurt you.”

A figure rose up from behind some crates and Arthur held up his hands.

Gwaine redirected his attention to Merlin for a moment.

“It's fine, honestly, I'm not bothered. I just want to go home to bed really.”

“You're a very good man, Gwaine, you deserve more than what you have,” Merlin said quietly.

“Mate,” Gwaine said, the cheeriness in his voice, affected and shallow, “I already have the world.”

Over Merlin's shoulder, Gwaine could see the figure getting to their feet and as they turned, the

moonlight caught their face and Gwaine froze in shock.

Merlin must have picked up on the panic in his expression because he turned to see what Gwaine was looking at.

The figure had got to their feet and Arthur had reached out a hand in a gesture of friendship. As the figure reached out in response, Merlin and Gwaine yelled in unison.

“ARTHUR! NO!”

Arthur turned, a frown on his face and beside him, Kara took advantage of his distraction. Gwaine saw her eyes flare gold with magic and Arthur was thrown backwards across the street. His sword in its scabbard was ripped from his belt and as he lay defenceless and dazed on the ground, Kara advanced.

“No!” Gwaine shouted, charging forward and lunging to tackle Kara. She turned sharply, throwing out a hand in Gwaine's direction. It was as if he were caught in the air mid-leap before being thrown backwards. He hit the ground, the force of impact knocking the air out of him, and he groaned as he rolled onto his side. Looking up, he saw Kara looking at him, a smirk playing around her mouth as she looked down at him.

Gwaine spat out blood from where he had bitten the inside of his cheek. He raised himself up onto his elbows, flicking his hair out of his eyes. “Go on then, finish me off,” he said. He knew she recognised him and wondered why she waited instead of killing him. She easily could; the childhood tales told in the yard had not been fabricated out of nothing.

Her gaze drifted from him to Merlin, whom Gwaine could sense was stood behind him. A strange expression came over her face and she looked from Merlin to Arthur and then back to Gwaine. No one moved.

Kara seemed to come to a conclusion in her mind as she raised her hand once more, clearly of the intent to deliver the final blow.

There was the sound of boots and men shouting orders, their voices getting closer and Kara hesitated, unsure of what to do.

It was now Arthur's turn to take advantage of a hesitation, and he grabbed his sword from where it lay beside him on the ground and got to his feet, holding his sword out against Kara. Her calm and collected demeanour faltered.

“You're under arrest for making an attempt on the life of a royal and will be tried for treason,” Arthur said, his voice cold and showing none of the humble, almost gentle man that Gwaine had seen in him not moments before, when thanking him for saving his life.

The knights had appeared at the end of the street, running to Arthur's aid immediately, their swords drawn and ready.

“You will come with us in a willing fashion or you will be restrained,” Arthur continued. Kara seemed to jerk from a temporary daydream and her eyes once more met Gwaine's, cold, calculating, and the smile once more playing around her lips.

“Oh, I don't think so,” she said. Slapping a hand to her shoulder where the Angyal mark was hidden below her tunic, her eyes glowed gold and she disappeared in a swirl of dark smoke. Gwaine breathed for what felt like the first time in minutes.

Behind him, Merlin stumbled to his side and offered him a hand to get up. Gwaine took it thankfully, still looking at the place where Kara had disappeared.

“You OK?” Merlin asked.

Gwaine nodded somewhat numbly in response. He'd had no idea that magic could be so powerful …

Once on his feet Gwaine surveyed the street. Carl was still unconscious and the man Merlin had dropped from the roof could either be dead or unconscious. The dead man whom Arthur had killed was being stripped of his weapons by the knights, and everyone was carefully skirting the place where Kara had vanished, the ground there now stained black like it had been burned. Everyone seemed busy, wrapped up in some task or other. Silent as the night, Gwaine slipped away.

**~ ~ ~**

Kara reappeared some way beyond Camelot city, and as the air around her solidified into real shapes and objects, she took her hand away from her shoulder, letting the burning fiery sensation recede. She shook slightly from the exertion of using magic over a long distance before glancing around herself to get her bearings. She had landed on the crest of a hill, the wind whistling over the peak. The vegetation here was sparse: the grass withered,coarse and stunted; spiked bushes stuck up between rocks. She had travelled so far that Camelot was not more than a glimmer of light on the far horizon behind her. Her thin brown tunic and wool cloak were not enough to keep out the cold and she shivered before setting off along the ridge.

She was glad the walk was not far; the wind whipped at her clothing and stung her exposed face.

Upon reaching the end of the ridge she dropped down on a narrow, steep pathway which twisted its way along the edge of the hill. It was more sheltered here; the hill steadily rose up beside her as she descended and blocked out the wind. She reached the end of the path which came out on a cliff ledge. Below, the sea pounded at rough and ragged cliffs. The wind hit her once again in a violent blast and she pulled her cloak around her and kept close to the cliff for fear of being blown off the ledge.

Beyond her lay her destination.

The top of the cliff widened out and stretched before her in a lonely platform of weather-beaten land. The path continued, now lined with trees – ancient apple trees stripped of leaves, their branched twisted with the gale and storms that struck the shore – and which led to the ruins of an abbey, built against the cliff face and now no more than pillars of rock which formed the outline of a building.

Kara didn't know much about the abbey, but she knew it had been there through the Great Wars and that its roots were hidden so deeply in history that no one knew the truth of its founding. All she knew was that there was magic surging through the site so strongly, it had been an ancient site of meeting for the Angyal throughout history.

As she walked down the avenue of trees, the wind quietened and died until it was no more than a whisper through the veil of magic that surrounded the abbey. The doors stood open, flanked on either side by glassless windows. Beyond, the ruins were in darkness, overshadowed by a roof that had fallen through in places and which had lost many of its slate tiles.

As was custom, on the threshold Kara fell to one knee, her head bowed in respect as she waited to be approached. She only raised her head when she felt the presence of someone in front of her and looking up, she smiled.

“I sensed your arrival,” Mordred said, helping her up and then embracing her. “I was worried about you but they wouldn't allow me to come and meet you.”

“I understand,” Kara replied.

“How are you?” Mordred asked, taking her arm and leading her into the abbey where torches sprang into light as they passed and lit their way. “The rumours were that you were going to kill the prince.”

Kara curled her free hand into a fist briefly, not giving away how angry she was at being so close yet failing. “I have news,” she responded levelly, “but not news that will be welcomed.”

They had walked through the abbey which was structured in one large, church-like space; the beams supporting the roof above them hidden in darkness. The floor was paved with great, smooth flagstones, worn by years of being walked over, and grass and weeds sprouted from the cracks between them. Great stone pillars supported the beams and the roof above them, and ivy trailed from beams to pillars to the ground like the spiders' cobwebs which lay over everything.

At the far end of the abbey was a stone altar, rectangular in shape, which had the Angyal symbol carved into the front of it with runes around it creating the phrase ‘ _Liberty will come with the New Age_.’

Before the altar stood a figure; a woman with long, raven-black hair. Kara recognised her as Morgana and as she and Mordred came to a stop behind her, Morgana turned.

“You have news for me, Kara,” she stated.

Kara nodded, taking in Morgana as she stepped away and went round the back of the altar. Her draped, feathered cloak trailed over the ground and dead leaves, creating a whispering sound as she moved. Her long black dress was embroidered with fine, silver thread that caught the moonlight streaming in through cracks in the roof and seemed to make her whole figure glisten with an other-worldly glow. The power and majesty radiating from her was unmissable.

“The prophecy,” Kara began, almost hesitantly. “The prophecy is coming true.”

Morgana's hiss of anger was the only indication that she had heard. She had placed a bowl of water upon the altar and was waving her hand above it, chanting a spell under her breath.

“They were together, all three of them, tonight. Emrys, Arthur and Gwaine … I was trying to kill Pendragon but …” Kara faltered, “as soon as I saw all three together … I feared what might happen.”

“It's alright,” Mordred said comfortingly beside her, taking her hand in his and squeezing it gently.

Kara bit her lip, trying to suppress the emotions that had entangled her in the past hour.

“So the prophecy has begun to unfold,” Morgana said quietly, peering closely at the water, looking at something Kara could not see.

“When courage, strength and magic unite, nothing will stand in their path,” Mordred mumbled quietly beside Kara, not that she needed to hear – they all knew the prophecy, “not even death. The New Age will dawn in the fire of magic and the passing of the last High Priestess.”

“I will not die!” Morgana screamed suddenly, overturning the bowl and sending the water in a shower onto the ground. It trickled away over the flagstones, running into streams in the cracks between them. A ghostly voice echoed from the water as it ran away.

“ _Sister, you are the last of our order. You are all that stands between the true New Age and the one created by Emrys and his kind. You cannot let him conquer. You cannot let our opportunity pass, for this is our last chance to achieve liberty. I know you will not fail me_.”

Morgause's voice faded into silence and Mordred let go of Kara's hand to stand in front of the altar to address Morgana.

“My lady,” he said quietly, “we must act now. If the three have met, it cannot be long before fate begins to follow its course. Emrys hopes to achieve a New Age with Arthur and Gwaine at his side but no age with a Pendragon at its head can be one of liberty for us. His father has proved his hatred for our kind and Arthur is no different. We must act now before Emrys destroys everything we have built and worked for. We must act _now_.”

Morgana's hands had curled into fists and slowly she released them, flexing her fingers.

“We must break the triad. What can magic and strength do without courage? How would strength and courage hope to succeed against us without magic?” Mordred said.

Morgana raised a hand to silence him and Mordred fell abruptly quiet.

“We cannot remove Arthur – he is too well protected, has too many guards and _Emrys_ ,” she spat the name out, “is always at his side.”

“Are you powerful enough to take Emrys?” Mordred asked.

Morgana was silent herself for a moment. “No,” she admitted through gritted teeth.

“So that leaves Gwaine,” Kara supplied.

It struck her how odd it was that a boy on the streets who had been kicked around by the older kids and battered and broken his whole life would be the key to the rise or fall of the New Age.

“I can take him easily,” Mordred offered.

“No,” Morgana said, “to completely destroy the trio – we must make them destroy one another.”

“Emrys does not know that Gwaine is the one?” Mordred asked.

“No. And his eagerness to protect Pendragon will be his undoing – will be the undoing of all of them.”

Morgana smiled to herself and Kara felt shivers run down her spine. She was so powerful. And dangerous. That was what Mordred had always said – Morgana would lead them to the New Age, but by no means was she to be trusted.

**~ ~ ~**

Gwaine hadn't seen anything of Merlin or Arthur for over a week, and to be honest, he liked it that way. He just wanted things to go back to normal and not have to think too much about everything that had happened. Like _magic_.

Having it used against him, being thrown through the air – he fully understood now why people feared and hated the Angyal. That power was wrong. And used in such a way … It made Gwaine sick to think of what else people with that power could do. What they were doing now. If Percival's stories were true, war was happening beyond Camelot's walls. A magical war.

How did people like himself stand a chance?

Percival remained in the house. It seemed an unspoken agreement that he would stay as long as he needed to stay and whilst Percival couldn't leave the house for fear of being caught, he had made himself useful, mending the bed, cleaning, and cooking. Gwaine had never seen the flat in such a state of cleanliness as it was now. Elyan, Will and Lancelot had all warmed up to Percival and as the days passed, the conversations went from terse to amiable and relaxed.

Gwaine found it somewhat strange and often caught himself wondering what would have happened if Kara hadn't sold them out in the yard – if things hadn't been the way they were, he and Percival could have been so much closer …

He walked back into the flat mid-morning twelve days after the incident with Merlin, Arthur and Kara to find Lancelot, Will and Percival there. Since Kara's attack, security checks and searches had become almost common and Lancelot was bemoaning the state of his shirt, which now had a gaping tear over the right shoulder.

“Camelot's going to run out of shirts,” Will commented dryly.

Gwaine dropped the parcel of food he had been carrying next to the stove and dropped to the floor next to Percival.

“It’s because of the King's birthday celebration,” Lancelot explained. “They don't want anything to go wrong. Things need to be the epitome of calm and settled.”

“Like any Angyal would dare come here with the city on such high alert. Kara's attack probably did us a favour – made sure no one else would bother trying for a while,” Gwaine said.

“Don't say things like that until you're sure,” Percival said quietly. “On our way here it seemed the Angyal were only waiting for a signal. For all we know, Kara could be the catalyst of all this.”

A grim moment of silence settled as Lancelot began to mend his shirt with quick, sharp movements of the needle.

Will broke the silence with a sigh and announced he was going out. Gwaine got the feeling Will still wasn't comfortable around Percival, and every time the conversation turned in the direction of the Angyal, Will would either change the topic or leave.

Percival looked down, clearly understanding Will's reason for leaving, and Gwaine felt moved to do something.

As Will went down the stairs, Gwaine got up to follow him.

Out in the street, Will was walking fast, weaving between people and shoppers, blending into the flow of the street; Gwaine's attempts to follow him were nowhere near as smooth. He caught up eventually and fell into step beside Will, who upon seeing him, raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything.

“He's not like them, Will,” Gwaine sighed.

“I know,” Will replied grudgingly.

“So what's your problem?” Gwaine asked.

“My dad was killed by his kind when he refused to be one of them – I saw it happen.”

The very cold silence that fell between them was not broken for some time as they made their way on down the streets in no particular direction.

“Will, I'm sorry,” Gwaine said eventually.

“What for? It's not your fault. It's the Angyal and them up there” — he gestured up at the castle on the hill — “for not doing anything to stop it.”

“But you don't blame Percival, do you?” Gwaine asked.

“No I don't – and I know it's not his fault for what's happened to him – its just that mark, I saw it the night they killed my dad and …” Will fell silent briefly. “Seeing it again … bad memories.”

“You shouldn't be going through this, Will,” Gwaine said. “You don't deserve what's happened to you.”

“Neither do you,” Will responded. “None of us do.”

Gwaine's eyes drifted to the palace on the hill without thought. Something cold dropped in his stomach. None of them deserved this. Not Percival, branded as an outsider despite no crime of his own. Not Will, tormented by a past that should have been prevented. Not himself, always chasing a dream he could never quite reach until he’d had to abandon that dream. Gwaine the dreamer.

_Snap out of it, Gwaine, that's not the title you want to give yourself._

His mind wandered again to how as a kid he'd made his mind up to one day beat Carl in a fight … and it suddenly clicked into place that he had. With a broom handle of all things.

He felt somewhat impressed of this achievement and found himself grinning.

Gwaine the fighter. Gwaine the champion.

“What's got you so happy?” Will asked, almost grumpily.

“Oh, nothing,” Gwaine replied, wiping the smile from his face. He hadn't told the others about the fight. About Arthur and Merlin. About the magic. He didn't really want to imagine their reactions if they discovered he'd saved _Arthur Pendragon_ of all people.

“Look, Gwaine – I'll go to the butcher's and see if I can get Freya to give us some meat,” Will offered. “The palace is having a celebration, why can't we? Lift the spirits.”

“Are you sure it’s just the meat you're interested in?” Gwaine grinned.

“Shut it,” Will growled, but without any real heat.

“Go on then,” Gwaine said, “go win your woman.”

Will rolled his eyes, but as he ran off down the street, Gwaine caught him checking his reflection in a window. He laughed to himself before swinging round and ambling off on his own.

A young, pretty girl was walking towards him on the street, bowed under the weight of a large crate of grain. As Gwaine watched her, she stumbled and the crate fell from her arms. The lid stayed on but her attempts to lift it again were fruitless.

Gwaine saw the opportunity and took it.

“Let me help you with that,” he offered, flicking his hair out of his face and giving her the most winning smile he could manage.

“Oh, I'm so sorry,” the girl responded, “you really don't have to trouble yourself.”

“No problem,” Gwaine replied, bending down and hefting the crate up.

It was heavy, but nothing he couldn't manage.

Gwaine the strong. Now he liked that one.

The girl reached to take it off him but Gwaine held on. “I'll carry it for you,” he insisted. She blushed in response and nodded, stepping in front of him to lead the way. Gwaine fell into step beside her.

“So,” he asked nonchalantly, “do you have a name?”

“It's Claire,” she said, the smile bright across her face.

“I'm Gwaine,” Gwaine replied, following her as they rounded a sharp corner and turned into a tiny alleyway.

“I know,” she said, her smile wide, too wide.

Gwaine stopped abruptly.

“Hang on, do I know you?” he asked.

The girl stopped then turned and her face seemed to flicker and shimmer as he watched. She grew taller and aged in the space of a few seconds.

“Didn't you recognise me, Gwaine?” Kara asked sweetly.

Gwaine stumbled backwards, the crate falling from his arms, but Kara had raised a hand and her eyes glowed with golden fire.

That was the last thing Gwaine remembered, before he collapsed.

**~ ~ ~**

He awoke to utter darkness, lying on cold, hard stone and with an ache in his temples worse than any hangover he'd ever had. The place where he was lying was cold and quiet, and somewhere near his head he could hear the unmistakable shuffling and scratching of mice.

He tried to sit up, but the blast of pain in his head forced him to flop back to the ground with a thump. Raising a hand to rub his head to ease the ache, he discovered his hands were chained together.

_What the heck was going on?_

This thought wasn't given much time to develop as at that moment, the space where he was lying flared into light. The unexpected brightness was so blinding that Gwaine didn't see the people around him until he was hauled upwards and onto his knees in front of a chair where a man was sitting. His lank, dark hair hung in curtains around his face, and he was layered in a fine fur cloak with a studded leather jacket underneath. He watched Gwaine for some time, occasionally reaching for the plate of food which sat beside him, taking a cherry and eating it, letting the juice run down his chin before spitting the stone away – usually at Gwaine's face.

Neither of them broke eye contact. For Gwaine, if this was going to be a battle to see who could be the bigger man, then so be it.

“You know,” Gwaine said eventually, breaking the silence, “I don't have all day. If we could get this over with?”

The man spat out another cherry stone and it bounced off Gwaine's cheek.

“If you don't mind,” Gwaine said, shuffling away to avoid further cherry stone projectiles.

“Do you know how long you've been here, Gwaine?” the man asked.

Gwaine swallowed back his surprise at the man knowing his name and feigned indifference.

“I'm not a busy man, why should it matter?” He shrugged.

“Kara captured you three days ago,” the man said, leaning forward, a sinister smirk on his face.

“It’s always the women,” Gwaine replied, smiling away his growing fear and doubt. _Why was he here?_

“You feign carelessness very well,” the man replied, leaning back to survey Gwaine once again as he reached for another cherry.

“I'm a careless man,” Gwaine responded, but his tone was tighter and his captor's smile was sign enough that his facade was crumbling.

“My name is Cenred, Gwaine,” Cenred said. “Does that mean anything to you?”

Gwaine wrinkled his nose. “Don't think so – you're clearly not important enough for my attention.”

Cenred's expression flickered for a moment to something like anger for before his smirk returned. Gwaine noticed. _Sore spot for the big man?_

Cenred was silent and Gwaine decided to push his luck.

“Sorry, I was telling the truth; who are you?”

Cenred gritted his teeth.

“I'm the leader of one of the military wings of the Angyal,” he said.

Gwaine beat back the wave of fear, worry and doubt that rolled over him.

“Ah, so that's why they gave me to you, obviously my lowly self wasn't good enough for those higher up the ladder, and they dumped me on you.” Gwaine was almost on a roll. He could tell he was getting under Cenred's skin.

“I'm beginning to think you have a point,” Cenred snarled.

His words caught Gwaine out however, and he frowned.

“What, I actually am important?” he asked.

Cenred gave him a withering look which Gwaine wasn't quite sure how to interpret. Instead he carried on as he had been before.

“Is it the hair? Damn it, I knew I was attracting attention.” He guessed by now his voice had reached a speed and pitch too fast and too high to cover his fear. “If you want my advice, try for more swish and less flick – it'd suit you.”

Cenred suddenly got up off his chair and knelt down in front of Gwaine.

“You really have no idea who you are, do you?” he asked.

Summoning his courage for what he guessed was going to be his last flare of taunting – Gwaine smiled.

“A whole lot better looking than you.”

The fist that hit him in the gut came more quickly and much more powerfully than Gwaine expected and he doubled over, wheezing. Cenred wasn't playing anymore.

“You've begun to attract attention, Gwaine,” Cenred said, getting to his feet and beginning to walk in a circle round Gwaine. “Certain things you've done which people have noticed … Like saving Arthur Pendragon's life.”

Gwaine sighed inwardly. He knew that had been a bad idea.

“Now, someone to have done such a great deed would surely be owed a reward. And they could use that opportunity to get close to the prince. Don't you think?”

Gwaine didn't like where this was going. Not at all.

“And getting close to the prince … now that is a position a lot of people would _kill_ to have.”

Cenred's tone was silky smooth as he came to a stop in front of Gwaine.

“What do you want me to do?” Gwaine asked, although, the answer was plain-as-day in front of him.

“I want you to kill Arthur Pendragon,” Cenred replied.

“No,” Gwaine responded.

Someone who had been standing behind him, out of sight, grabbed him unexpectedly by the back of his shirt and threw him forward across the floor towards Cenred.

“How's Percival been doing since he found his new lodgings?” Cenred asked softly.

Gwaine froze.

“Will and Elyan accepting him like a brother I suppose. Lancelot offering him a better place to sleep at night. Oh yes, Gwaine. We know about them. And you know what we'll do if you don't follow our orders.”

Gwaine began to slowly raise himself up out of the dust at Cenred's feet, but Cenred planted a boot between his shoulder blades and slammed him back onto the floor. His chin jarred against the stone, grazing the skin along his jaw.

“So I'll tell you again – kill Arthur Pendragon.”

Feeling somewhat like he was signing his death warrant – Gwaine nodded.

“Excellent,” Cenred said – the taunt and the leer present in his voice.

The pressure from Cenred's boot disappeared from his back, and Gwaine was once again dragged onto his knees.

“One final parting gift though, I think,” Cenred said, kneeling again in front of Gwaine and placing a hand over his right shoulder, murmuring a strange incantation. Gwaine realised what he was going to do a moment before he did.

The pain was like nothing Gwaine could ever have imagined. It tore through skin, flesh, ligament and bone; Gwaine yelled out – his vision going white in agony.

Then it was over and Cenred was stepping away. Gwaine flopped over onto his side, not needing to look at his shoulder to know what was there. A flaming eye, wreathed in dark fire. A mark. A seal. A curse.

“Welcome to the Angyal, Gwaine,” Cenred said, just before Gwaine blacked out.

**~ ~ ~**

Of all the places to wake up, upended in an empty barrel which smelled suspiciously like fish was not one Gwaine would have chosen of his own accord. After a lot of twisting and bumping he managed to lever himself out of the barrel and mercifully found himself in a deserted street. At least no one had seen his pitiful attempts at getting out.

His hand strayed to the sore patch of skin on his right shoulder where he knew the mark of the Angyal was.

 _Don't think about it, Gwaine_ , he told himself angrily. If he was caught with the mark on him it would mean certain death.

It seemed just one more thing that Cenred could use to play with him. As if the lives of his friends weren't enough.

He guessed he should go see them, one last time. Explain. Apologise. Say goodbye. A lump caught in the back of his throat, and Gwaine had to tell himself furiously not to cry. Through all the bad stuff that he'd been through, he'd never cried if he could help it. He was

Gwaine the strong, remember?

Although right now, the future looked bleak. If he killed Arthur and was caught, he'd be executed. If he killed Arthur and escaped he'd have to leave Camelot. If he didn't kill Arthur, Cenred would kill his friends.

There was no easy solution. No cheap way out. No chance of a happy ending. He'd been an idiot to protect Arthur that night, that much was plain; no matter how much of a saviour he'd been then, he was to be Arthur's doom now, and similarly, Arthur was to be his. He'd barely noticed the fact that he was walking and would have passed straight past Kara had she not stuck out her arm and pulled him into an alleyway.

A cold stone seemed to slide down into his gut at the sight of her and any half-baked plans of grabbing the others, fleeing the city and saving a few damsels in distress along the way flickered and died before his eyes.

“Afternoon, Gwaine,” Kara said with a smile that was more a baring of teeth. “Did you sleep well?” Gwaine remained silent, swallowing down any retort he had been about to throw. He knew well it was best not to test Kara.

“It's the king's anniversary today,” Kara continued. “The big celebration is about to start at the palace. I'd be heading there now. Wouldn't want to _miss_ anything.”

Gwaine nodded briefly – he knew what Kara wanted him to do.

“I and a few others will follow on behind,” Kara said. “Personally I think these celebrations will be the highlight of my year.”

 _I'm sure they will_ , Gwaine thought. _You always did like watching others get hurt_. He didn't voice his thoughts aloud, however, and remained stoic and expressionless as Kara stepped up to him.

“I'm sure some would _die_ to see them,” she breathed in his ear.

Gwaine looked down at her, making sure his disgust was plain in his features. However, as he looked at her, something about Kara struck him as odd.

She still seemed so _young_. To all intents and purposes she appeared younger than he did even though he knew they were at least five years apart in age. And yet, her eyes seemed so old, with depths that Gwaine couldn't begin to fathom. He wondered what things Kara had seen in her lifetime.

All of this crossed his mind in a second before Kara moved away and disappeared into the street beyond.

Gwaine let out a long, shuddering breath and leant back against the wall.

There would be no going back to the house to see the others. He should meet his fate now. Get it over with. He didn't know if he'd be able to face goodbyes anyway.

He started off up the narrow, winding streets, the palace above him growing larger all the time. His sense of dread also grew, but he squashed it down. It didn't do to dwell on what _might_ happen, and he wasn't going to go down without a fight.

As he reached the palace gates and was beginning to deliberate the best way to get in, he was startled by a friendly shout from just down the street.

“Gwaine!” It was Merlin. And, a little way behind him, Arthur. Gwaine's stomach dropped.

“Hi,” he said shakily, attempting a smile but not quite managing it.

“Up here to see the celebrations?” Arthur asked, his smile bright as he joined them.

Gwaine nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

“Where did you go the other night then?” Merlin asked, his smile fading slightly as he seemed to notice Gwaine's less than cheerful mood. Gwaine tried to feign his usual brightness.

“Oh, you seemed to have everything under everything under control,” he replied airily, “and I wanted to sleep,” he added. “Running around saving princes is a tiring business.”

“Don't flatter yourself,” Arthur responded somewhat grumpily, and he scowled as Merlin laughed. “I could've taken them,” he continued.

At this, a snort of laughter escaped Gwaine and he looked slightly disbelievingly at Arthur as he walked past Gwaine and Merlin into the palace.

“Is he always like that?” Gwaine asked Merlin quietly. His voice obviously carried however as Arthur shot a glare back over his shoulder.

“Come along, Merlin. We haven't got all day,” he snapped.

Merlin grinned, then gestured up at the palace.

“Do you want to come in?” he asked. “You could come to the feast. No one would mind. You did save Arthur's life after all.”

Merlin's happy, excited face was almost too much for Gwaine to bear, however, he brought a smile to his face and accepted the offer – trying not to think about how he was now one step closer to killing Arthur as he followed Merlin into the palace.

**~ ~ ~**

The evening passed in a heady swirl of entertainers, performers, food, speeches and Gwaine attempting to down as much wine as he possibly could. He didn't even notice the beauty of the palace, this place of awe that he had dreamt of since he was a child. However, the wine didn't help to drown his increasing nerves or the sick feeling which had lodged itself somewhere in his throat.

 _What was he doing here_? Was he really going to kill someone tonight?

It all seemed so absurd, so out of place in the midst of such merriment and happiness. Gwaine watched Arthur and his father laughing as Merlin poured out more wine, and a platter of roast pork was passed down the table. Were these really people who someone would want dead?

And yet, suddenly, a cold memory seeped into Gwaine's head, of a night many years ago when he had been lying in a gutter trying to find a warm patch that didn't exist in amongst the damp leaves and stones. People had walked past him without even a second glance, and his stomach had been screaming in hunger. He hadn't eaten for days, and as he lay there in the wet and cold, things looked bleaker than they ever had before. He'd never forgotten that night.

“My noble friends, what a night!” Uther had risen to his feet to make a speech. Gwaine jerked out of his daydream and looked to the king as the room fell quiet around him.

“It is my pleasure to see you all here,” Uther continued, “and it is also my greatest pleasure to celebrate my anniversary here with you now.”

“Camelot has not known such prosperity, such plenty, as it does now. We stand at the height of a golden era and it is my privilege to lead you in this time.” There was applause. Gwaine stood stock still, staring. _What golden age?_

“No force can stand against the might of Camelot, for Camelot is founded on loyalty and care. We care for our citizens and no person goes unfed; no plea for help goes unheard.”

Gwaine had trouble not vomiting. The other people at the tables were applauding and smiling. Uther stood patiently, a smile bright on his face as he watched them all eat up his lies. His eyes, however, were cold and distant – betraying the true nature of the tyrant king.

Gwaine had always hated the King for abandoning him and his mother after the death of his father, but this was something more. To stand and blatantly lie in front an assembly of people who actually could do _something_. There were lords and ladies here, people who had the money and power to change things … and yet they were content to believe that all in their world was sunny and good. Just like the people who had walked past him that night in the gutter when he had nearly given up.

He would not give up tonight.

Uther's speech ended in a storm of clapping but Gwaine just sat, numbly staring at the opposite wall. _He had to do something_.

And when Merlin and Arthur got up so Arthur could change into his armour for the traditional firing of the canon to mark the king's anniversary – Gwaine quietly followed after them.

**~ ~ ~**

Merlin was furious.

Arthur was discontent as well, he could tell, but neither of them said anything about the king's less than honest speech as Arthur discarded his jacket and reached for his chain-mail, which was lying on the table.

Merlin helped him to dress; first the chain-mail, then fixing the various plates of armour into place. They were both unusually silent.

“You're ready, sire,” Merlin said, fighting to keep his tone level. He tried not to think about how his magic had been sparking through him all the way through the speech. Sometimes it was less under his control than he would like and after so many years of keeping it hidden, squashed down, it was prone to unexpectedly lashing out.

Morgana would laugh. He was the most powerful of them all, the leader of the Angyal, and yet he couldn't even keep his own magic under control. Punishment, she would say, for keeping his magic hidden. Oh yes, he knew what she thought of his goals, and what he had to do to achieve them. And he knew why she hated him for it.

So lost was he in his angry and bitter thoughts that it took him a moment to realise Arthur was speaking to him.

“My sword, Merlin – where's my sword?” His voice let Merlin see how angry Arthur was about everything his father had said but Merlin knew better than to point it out. Sighing to himself, he realised he must have left the sword in the armoury.

“It's in the armoury, sire. I won't be long,” he said, scampering off before Arthur could shout, but to his surprise, Arthur just gave a tired sigh and sank down against the table.

It seemed it wasn't just Merlin who was sick of Uther's lies.

**~ ~ ~**

Merlin was gone. This was his opportunity.

Arthur had raised a hand to cover his eyes, and from his position, crouched hidden in the corner, Gwaine could see the prince – defenceless.

If he did it now, quickly and quietly, he could be gone before Merlin got back. No one would know. He could get the others and get out of Camelot. Escape this whole mess.

And yet, he didn't move.

He had a sword in his hand which he had taken from a drunken knight, too out of it to realise he was being robbed. It felt odd and too heavy in his hand. Maybe it knew the deed he was about to commit.

He silently left his corner. Arthur's back was turned and Gwaine could see the point at which two of the plates of his armour didn't _quite_ meet. The point where he would drive the blade in.

The sick feeling in his throat had spread, eating through him like a plague, rotting and festering.

He couldn't do it. But he had to. Will, Elyan, Lancelot, Percival – they'd all die if he didn't do this.

The curse of indecision struck him and he stood, hovering behind Arthur, the sword half raised in a hand that was trembling.

_He couldn't do this._

“Gwaine?”

Merlin's voice behind him, full of confusion and doubt was enough to tip Gwaine over the edge and he staggered back, the sword dropping out of his loose grip. A moment later, a strong force hit him in the chest and he was shoved back up against the wall, the breath knocked out of him, Arthur's knife at his throat.

“ _You?_ ”Arthur spat in his face. “I trusted you! I thanked you. Why would you have any reason to betray me?”

“Please …” Gwaine choked out, startled to find he had tears in his eyes, “… there's more of them coming … they're going to kill you.”

Arthur's mask of infuriation slipped for a moment.

“Merlin,” he said, his voice strangely level, “call the guards, alert them.”

He took the knife away from Gwaine's neck and released the crushing arm over his chest. His hand reached out and tugged back the shoulder of Gwaine's shirt.

Something swift and sorrowful crossed his face before he just became emotionless.

“I should have known,” he said.

He stepped away and Gwaine sank down, his knees not holding him anymore.

_What had he done?_

He heard shouting as Merlin skidded back into the room.

“Arthur, they're in the castle,” he panted.

Arthur swore and grabbed the sword from where Gwaine had dropped it on the floor and raced from the room.

Merlin gazed at Gwaine for a moment, noticing it seemed, the mark on his shoulder and was about to say something when Arthur's shout of pain caused him to spring round and charge after his master.

Gwaine breathed heavily in the silence that followed.

He hadn't killed Arthur. He hadn't escaped. Will and the others were going to die. It had all gone wrong.

Guards marched into the room and hauled him to his feet. The dragged him away and Gwaine didn't resist. He didn't even care anymore. The guards threw him to the floor in an open room, filled with the last light of the setting sun through its west-facing windows. As Gwaine raised himself up to look around, he looked into the eyes of the last man he wanted to see. Uther Pendragon.

“He was with the Angyal,” the guards reported. “He made an attempt on the prince's life.”

Uther's face was impassive.

“Where are the other Angyal?” the king asked.

“They are fighting, mainly in the courtyard. The prince is leading the resistance. He has everything under control.”

“Execute him,” Uther said, gesturing at Gwaine, “and make sure the others die.”

At that moment, however, Arthur burst through the doors to the room.

His face was bloodied and he was holding one arm awkwardly; Gwaine could see several plates of his armour had been dislodged.

“Arthur!” Uther's face morphed from impassive to concerned in a matter of moments as he hastened to his son's side.

“I'm fine, father,” Arthur said, waving his father off with a pained gesture.

“The Angyal?” Uther asked.

“Fled,” Arthur said. “There was a sorceress with them and she vanished. The others ran.”

Merlin had come in behind Arthur, a shadow in his eyes and a bloody nose with blood smeared across his cheek.

“I was told this man made an attempt on your life,” Uther said, a sense of satisfaction entering his tone as he rounded on Gwaine.

“Yes,” Arthur replied, hesitant as he approached Gwaine, uncertainty plain in his face.

“You agree he deserves to be executed?”

Arthur gave Gwaine a piercing look, a withdrawn, calculating look to his gaze.

He nodded.

Gwaine's head dropped, any faint hope of redemption gone.

_God, he'd miss Will._

At first he thought people were just being quiet in the face of someone being sentenced to death but after a moment, he realised something was wrong and his head snapped up. People were no longer looking at him and instead were looking towards the end of the room – some with looks of fear on their faces, others with looks of hatred.

Gwaine looked there also.

Stood under one of the high arched windows was a tall shadowy figure, cloaked in black and masked. The person was looking at the floor and from where he was knelt, Gwaine could hear a faint whistling noise which grew steadily louder. It took Gwaine only a short while to realise it wasn't the figure breathing … but the wind. It whistled and moaned, slinking in through cracks in the stone until it was less of a breeze in the room and more of a gale.

And yet, no one moved, no one spoke; Gwaine barely dared breathe as the figure moved forward into the centre of the room; wind tugging at its cloak. Under the hood, Gwaine saw a cold, white face.

Then, the figure spoke in a voice like rustling leaves, yet perfectly audible over the howling of the wind.

“ _And so, the axe of the tyrant king falls again. Yet in this hour it shall not only be the accused that passes but the kin of he that condemns. For courage will not find itself till magic confesses its true nature and strength breaks the walls of the past. There shall be no rest for strength till courage fights its foes and there shall be no place for magic in this world until courage and strength stand together. And on that day the triad will stand affirmed and so one in three shall become three in one_ …”

The wind died almost instantly and as Gwaine blinked, the hooded figure vanished.

Silence hung in the room for a beat then Uther stepped forward and grabbed Gwaine by his shirt, hauling him to his feet.

“I shall execute him myself!” the king roared.

Several voices spoke and people moved forward. Gwaine, whilst confused, looked boldly into Uther's face, wondering how many times that man had ended a life … and hating him for it.

“Father,” Arthur's voice, steady and calm, seemed to break Uther's moment of fury and he loosened his hold on Gwaine, dropping him back to the floor.

“Father, you know we cannot.”

Gwaine didn't have a clue what was going on, who the figure had been or why everyone was so panicked – but it seemed his death sentence had just been repealed so he breathed a sigh of relief.

An older man with white hair to his shoulders stepped forward, tilting his head to acknowledge the king.

“It would seem unwise, sire, to execute. The prophets have spoken against it and Camelot has never fared well in going against the words of the prophets.”

Uther's lips tightened.

“The last time would be concerning the death of your wife,” the old man continued.

“Silence, physician!” Uther growled, “or it shall not only be your head that rolls.”

Gwaine swallowed back his initial relief.

“Father,” Arthur said again, warning in his tone, “Gaius is right. The prophets have spoken. It would be foolish to deny their words as the truth.”

“Are you saying I'm foolish?” Uther asked, his tone deadly.

Arthur was silent for a moment and his bit his lip, clearly weighing something up in his mind.

“It wouldn't be the first time,” he said eventually.

There was a silent intake of breath from every person present and Gwaine watched Arthur and Uther intently. Uther seemed to swell with rage and Gwaine half wondered if he would strike his own son.

But then just as rapidly, he deflated, spared a glance round the assembly there and then looked down at Gwaine.

“You are banished from Camelot. To return is on pain of death.”

Gwaine was dumbstruck. Not death. No execution. He was free …

People were moving away, mumbling quietly among one another and Uther, after one, piercing glare at Arthur, strode from the room.

Arthur looked at Gwaine, seeming to want to say something, but then shook his head minutely and followed after his father.

Merlin was the only one to approach Gwaine. He looked pale and drawn, the blood on his face standing out starkly.

“The Angyal,” Gwaine said thickly, “they're going to kill my friends. If I didn't kill Arthur they said they would. Please … can you do something?”

Merlin nodded, “I'll do my best,” he replied.

“I'm sorry, I … I wasn't going to kill him,” Gwaine said, desperate for someone to believe him, for someone to understand.

“I know,” Merlin replied.

Merlin touched his shoulder briefly and then was gone.

Gwaine was alone.

**~ ~ ~**

He didn't bother going to pack. He didn't have much anyway, and saying goodbye would only hurt. They might all be dead now anyway if Cenred had already got to them.

Things seemed to happen in a slow motion blur. He left the palace, the evening sun blinding him as he stepped beyond the gates. The palace was everything anyone had ever said and more. But it couldn't be his dream. Not any more.

He walked slowly straight down the main street, street lamps flickering into life as he went, and the wardens slowly making their way to their positions. Normal life carried on without him.

He paused only once, for the briefest of moments, to look once more into a shop window. The very same window that he had gazed into on that Christmas day where a sparkling treasure trove had told him stories of brave knights, courageous and strong, and the magic of Christmas had lit a fire in his heart, before the wardens had set fire to his home.

The knight figurines were still there, but Gwaine didn't stop for long. Somehow, the boy who dreamed of becoming a knight was gone. Gwaine moved on.

At last he stood at the gates, the road beyond winding into the valley. The rest of the world lay out there. Funnily enough, he had never left the city before now. He didn't even know where he was going to go.

“Are ye in or are ye out? I've gotta lock the gates,” the rough-voiced, scowling man said, approaching from his gate house.

“I'm out,” Gwaine sighed, taking a few steps forward … and out of Camelot.

He hesitated, but the guard was shutting the heavy gates behind him.

“Hey, do you know anywhere I can stay the night?” he asked the guard, who paused in his locking of the gates.

“Three miles down the road. When you join the river, there's an inn,” the guard said. “If you go now you should get there before dark.” The guard seemed somewhat sympathetic and Gwaine nodded his thanks.

“Safe travels,” the guard said before retreating to his hut. Gwaine raised a hand in thanks.

He took one last look up at the city, at the palace, lights shining out.

 _I already have the world._ That was what he had said to Merlin. Well, it was true. He had the world. Except the one and only place he had ever known as home.

* * *

**_One Year Later … Skallart Village – Kingdom of Albion – 23. 2. 2555_ **

A house to himself. He'd never had so much.

He'd been in the village for little over a month. He liked the busy trade that went through, always new people and never a quiet moment. The local tavern hadn't yet got sick of him and he'd found himself a job acting as a guard for a little old lady who ran a stall selling knitted hats. The likelihood of someone wanting to steal them was practically zero but Gwaine wasn't going to say no to the easy pay.

He strapped his sword belt around his waist and felt the now familiar weight of the sword at his side. He'd had to learn how to protect himself. There were people out there who wanted to kill him. Something to do with the Angyal and a prophecy and Arthur. Gwaine paid it little attention. He didn't care as long as the Angyal didn't try _too_ hard to kill him. Most of the time it was just sport, watching them try to get close without him noticing.

He didn't think about Arthur and Camelot. He'd moved on. Well … at least that was what he told himself.

As far as he knew, Percival, Will, Lancelot and Elyan were still alive, and for him, that was good enough.

He shrugged his shoulders into his jacket, fingers briefly brushing the pendant and ring round his neck before he headed for the door and entered the street beyond.

He lived on the main street of the village, and the road that ran through it was the same one that ran to Camelot. The houses were tall and tilted over the street, giving a permanent shade at any time other than midday. Unlike Camelot, where everything was made of sandstone, here in Skallart, all the buildings were made of wood and had thatched roofs.

The main street was a thriving industry of trade and business and even early in the morning, stalls were already set up to catch passing travellers and display the sellers’ wares.

Gwaine bought himself an apple and then headed for his post at the knitted hat stall.

The old woman, Edith, was already there, laying out the hats in a multi-coloured rainbow pattern. She smiled at Gwaine and offered him soup from her flask, and they kept up banal conversation about her dodgy hip, how her chickens were doing, how she was hoping the frost would end so her cabbages would grow. Gwaine paid attention enough to respond when required but besides that, he just watched the streets and the passers by, idly wondering if the pretty girl across the street was taken or not.

As the day wandered by and Gwaine chatted with travellers and tradesmen from the other stalls, he found his attention barely occupied. The desire, which he had been squashing for months now to _do_ something, rising up in him. But, he'd learned, it was best not to get involved. The mark of the Angyal, still on his shoulder and unfading, was more than a reminder of that fact.

A hooded man passed by the stall and headed for the pub at the end of the street. Gwaine watched him, noting the drape of his cloak and the sword clearly visible beneath it. Most travellers carried weapons nowadays; you'd be a fool not to with the growing threat of the Angyal heavy in every corner of the kingdom, but the way the traveller had his hand ready on the hilt and kept to the edge of the street in the shadows caught Gwaine's attention. This man didn't want to be seen.

Promising Edith he'd be back shortly, Gwaine slipped away from his post at her stall and wound his way through shoppers and towns-people, keeping a close eye on the man ahead of him. The street, busy with tradespeople was perfect cover for a bit of tailing and the man ahead of him either didn't care that he was being followed or didn't notice him. Gwaine hoped it was the latter.

For a brief moment, he pondered why he was tailing this man – but he dismissed the thought. The man looked shifty, and the tailing livened his day a little.

The man ahead drew over to the side of the street, heading for a particular house. It was a narrow but tall building that filled the gap between the tavern on one side and a bakery on the other.

Most people avoided it and for good reason. Gwaine knew who lived there.

Hengist was his name and he made his living by selling slaves over the border into Odin's kingdom. On his day off, he was a dogs-body for the Angyal. Gwaine didn't pay him any attention. No one did. Hengist was not a man welcome in Skallart but he was here and there was little anyone could do about it.

However, today, Gwaine _was_ interested. Not merely because he knew the man at Hengist's door wasn't Hengist, but also because from his stance and the flash of blonde hair as he glanced back down the street, Gwaine knew the man was Arthur Pendragon.

Arthur knocked and entered a moment later, clearly not waiting to be invited in. A flash of steel caught Gwaine's eye as Arthur unsheathed his sword. Then the door swung shut behind him.

What was going on?

A commotion caught his attention down the street as a man wearing the bright red flowing cape that signified a knight of Camelot, clattered into the middle of the market on a tall golden brown horse.

He swung down out of the saddle, looking breathless and windswept.

“This day in the city of Camelot,” he called out, raising his head as faces turned towards him, “Uther, King of the Seven Seas and light of our darkest days – has died. His son Arthur, succeeds him on the throne. The King is dead. _Long live the King!_ ”

There were stunned cries and shouts of alarm, but the knight was leaving, already swinging himself up onto his horse and turning round.

People were crying out for information, but Gwaine didn't care – he plunged straight across the street and through the door into Hengist's house.

Arthur was there, the hood of his cloak back and his sword up against Hengist's neck. In the gloom, Gwaine could tell that Hengist was pressed up against the large oaken table in the centre of the room, his feet sliding for grip on the floor among the muck and filth that he lived in.

At Gwaine's intrusion, Arthur looked up, startled.

Hengist seized the opportunity and lunged forward at Arthur, knocking him backwards. Arthur slipped in the grime on the floor and tripped backwards before hitting one of the vertical wood beams which held up Hengist's house.

“You're a fool to come here, Arthur Pendragon,” Hengist laughed. “My only interest is why? Why would Prince Arthur be interested in a man like me?”

Arthur regained his footing a moment later and leapt back as Hengist, his eyes ablaze.

“Not _Prince_ anymore,” he growled, his sword slicing across Hengist's cheek as Hengist's staggered backwards into the table once more.

“Your people murdered my father,” he said, forcing Hengist down with a swipe of his sword over his face. “And I want to know where I can find them.”

Hengist looked surprised for a moment but then began to laugh again.

“ _You_? Take on the Anygal?” He snorted. “Run for your life whilst you still can, boy, they won't let you keep it for long. You'll never defeat them like this on your own.”

Gwaine watched the exchange, his thoughts clouded and confused.

The Angyal had killed Uther. Arthur was here, demanding their whereabouts.

He’d felt strangely distant from all of this. For a year he’d just been living a normal life, or as normal as his life ever could get. Kings and revolutions, war and fighting, seemed a little out of touch.

And yet here was Arthur. Brining it all back.

Well, he could do with a break from protecting knitted hats, and maybe there was a reason behind their meeting again.

“He won't be alone,” Gwaine interrupted, stepping forward and knocking Arthur's sword aside with his own. He then grabbed Hengist by his shirt and dragged him further backwards over the table, his sword blade pressed flat over his neck, cutting off his windpipe.

“Now tell me where they are,” he growled.

It took Hengist approximately eight seconds of not being able to breathe before he gave in.

“Black-heart hill, take the path to the southern side … you'll find an abbey.”

Gwaine released the pressure on the blade and stood back, turning to grin at Arthur as he did so.

But Arthur had gone.

Gwaine hurried after him out into the street.

“No need to say 'thanks',” he said, catching up to Arthur as they wove their way through the stalls down the street. People were still talking about Uther's death, but they didn't seem to notice Arthur and Arthur appeared to be ignoring them.

“Your father's dead,” Gwaine said. “You're king. Why are you here?”

After a moment of silence and a considerable increase in Arthur's speed, Gwaine realised Arthur was ignoring _him_ as well.

“Okay, you don't want to talk,” Gwaine said, shrugging carelessly.

They left the village behind them in a short amount of time. Arthur was walking fast and still not talking. Gwaine kept pace with him, asking questions occasionally but receiving no response.

Eventually Arthur slowed, and Gwaine guessed the reason why. Ahead of them, Black-heart hill rose up at the end of the valley, blocking the view of the sea which lay beyond.

“So you're just going to waltz in there and give them a talking to,” Gwaine said, coming to a stop beside Arthur.

Arthur swallowed and grimaced. “I don't know what I'll do,” he admitted.

“There are better ways to seek justice,” Gwaine replied.

“Like what?” Arthur asked darkly. “They are so much more powerful than I am. In my own court there's so many spies and traitors I can't keep track. Even my own manservant's gone missing.”

“Merlin?” Gwaine asked incredulously. “Really?”

“After my father died this morning,” Arthur responded, “he left the palace – we haven't seen him since.”

“And you came out here to find Hengist …” Gwaine prompted.

“We know he was a link to the Angyal – he could tell me their location. I could seek … _revenge_ ,” he finished, the last word sounding like a bad taste in his mouth.

“And getting yourself killed – walking in there and basically asking for the axe is going to help?” Gwaine asked.

Arthur snorted. “I've gotten to the point where I don't even really care any more. Look at me, pouring my heart out to you - practically a stranger. MaybeI can find some sort of peace or justice if I go. ”

“It’s a suicide mission,” Gwaine pointed out, trying to be helpful.

Arthur started walking again.

Gwaine caught up with him again.

“I thought you said this was suicide?” Arthur grunted.

“I like living on the wild side, me,” Gwaine responded, flashing Arthur a smile.

“You didn’t have to intervene back there,” Arthur responded.

“I know how to deal with men like Hengist,” Gwaine replied.

“But in Camelot, when you tried to kill me,” Arthur continued, clearly trying to sort something out in his head, “Merlin told me your friends had been threatened. You didn’t need to put them in danger.”

“I don’t know what I was doing really,” Gwaine responded, “you’re a prat. And a royal one at that.”

He kept up the cheerful retorts, half afraid of what he might discover inside himself if he really thought about the reasons behind his actions. Why was he here, helping Arthur? A man who had condemned him to death, and who would probably condemn him again.

“I know you're not with the Angyal,” Arthur said, breaking the silence which had fallen between them.

Gwaine stared at Arthur, wondering how the King had come to that conclusion.

“How?” he asked.

“The prophecy that was made on the day of your trial,” Arthur said, “courage, strength, magic … all that. It meant something. I know that. And … you're here now. We've met again. What were the chances?”

“Some weird dude in a cloak talks about destiny and all of a sudden we're best friends?” Gwaine asked.

“Hardly,” Arthur scoffed.

“But you believe all of it?” Gwaine asked.

“The last time a prophecy was made in the halls of Camelot was before my birth. It concerned my father's choices in the kingdom and my mother. My father … ignored the prophecy, and my mother died in child birth.”

Gwaine didn't quite know what to say.

“First time you've been quiet all journey,” Arthur said, a smile quirking his lips for the first time since Gwaine had seen him that day.

“Well … its just a bit weird really,” Gwaine replied, “destiny … and really, a destiny with you?”

“Don't worry, we won't have to put up with each other for long. We'll probably be dead by sundown.”

There was a steep climb at the base of the hill culminating in a long rise rise to its crest. The day was wearing on as they passed the cairn marking the peak of the hill, and the sun was dimming over the horizon.

Glancing back, Arthur and Gwaine paused to look at Camelot, a speck in the distance at the head of the valley.

“It's funny to think I won't be going back there,” Arthur murmured.

“You get used to it,” Gwaine shrugged.

Arthur blinked, a small grimace twisting his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Really?” Gwaine responded.

“No matter what many people think,” Arthur said grimly, “I’m not like my father. I know you should never have been put through what you did.”

“Quite a day for heartfelt revelations from you isn’t it?” Gwaine joked, but somehow, he felt a strange loyalty to the young King. Arthur seemed to understand him

Camelot was out of his reach now and he may not even live past the night, but, standing with Arthur, fighting for justice, that seemed to connect to that part of him where a small boy still longed to do good. He briefly wondered about his father – about why he had been abandoned. But instead of dwelling on it, he just turned and followed the path which led away from the peak down the side of the hill. A moment later, he heard Arthur follow after him.

A chilly wind swept up the path towards them and in the distance, Gwaine could hear the thunder of the sea against the cliffs.

“I won't blame you if you want to turn back,” Arthur said.

“Me?” Gwaine asked, feigning shock. “I never would.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “This is serious, I only planned to come here alone.”

“Well, now you've got me,” Gwaine shrugged.

Arthur took hold of him arm, pulling him round.

“This is my battle, Gwaine – you don't need to fight it with me. You don't owe me anything! It is I that is in your debt.”

Gwaine nodded. He could turn round right there – turn his back on the King, turn his back on Camelot forever.

A child, wrapped in a blanket, gazing into a shop window on Christmas day wavered before his eyes. Knights in flowing capes of red. Knights who would die for their king, would give up their lives for what was just and honourable. Like his father had.

“Oh I know you're in my debt,” he said, a grin on his face. “I just want to keep you alive so you can pay me back.”

Arthur bit his lower lip, uncertainty in his eyes as he looked at Gwaine. But eventually he sighed.

“I'm not going to get rid of you, am I?” he sighed.

“Nope.”

“Then to death we shall go,” Arthur said, holding out a hand for Gwaine to shake.

Gwaine took it, clasping it roughly. “Together.”

Then, the sky around them erupted in black fire. Arthur yelled out and something, he couldn't tell what, smacked Gwaine backwards, away from Arthur and down the path. He rolled on the stones and his fingers slipped as they reached for his sword.

An unfamiliar face loomed above him, and a woman with dark hair knelt down beside him.

“Hello, Gwaine,” she said, a smile curling her lips. “It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Morgana. Morgana Pendragon.”

Gwaine blinked dazedly. Pendragon?

Away from them, Gwaine heard Arthur roar out angrily, someone or something attacking him. Gwaine tried to raise himself up but Morgana pressed a hand to the side of his face, fingers caressing his temples and pushing him back down.

“No no, you will sleep. I'll wake you later … wouldn't want you to miss anything.”

It was somewhat like falling into a very deep sleep, very quickly as the world around Gwaine turned to shadows and darkness.

**~ ~ ~**

Arthur had forgotten how haunted Morgana looked. But then, he hadn't seen her in at least two years. Time had not been kind to her.

She had once been his sister. Once.

He bowed his head, not wanting to looked at her as she stood in the middle of the room, the space behind her in darkness and the torches on the walls flickering and dim. Her cloak swept the ground and rustled up the leaves as she stepped closer to Arthur.

No one could have expected it. The gentle and loving ward who'd settled so perfectly into the court life, only to tear it in two.

The Angyal had attacked the castle, and Morgana had led them. She'd almost destroyed them all , only to falter at the last moment as it seemed her power failed her.

She'd fled the city and turned to the darkness which had consumed her. Utterly.

But in that moment, the moment when she'd lifted her hand to cast the curse and no magic had obeyed her command, in that moment Arthur had seen a young, fragile creature, afraid and broken.

She no longer seemed young … or fragile – but she was more broken than Arthur had even seen before.

His captors had bound his hands behind his back and forced him to kneel in the centre of the abbey. His sword was gone and his captors had not been gentle. A bruise was blossoming across his left cheek and he could taste blood in his mouth.

This definitely had not been the best idea.

The anger, fury, and above all, sadness which had fuelled him all the way from Camelot to here was ebbing away and he found it hard to hold himself upright.

Morgana knelt down in front of him.

“How are you, brother dear?” she asked softly.

“No better for your treatment,” Arthur responded.

“You were coming here to kill me,” Morgana replied. “What could I do?”

“I was only returning the crime committed,” Arthur said levelly. “Your people killed my father.”

“Oh yes, how is it being king?” Morgana asked, a smirk curling her lips, “Of course, you haven't experienced it for very long … and you don't have long left either. I’ll remember you by the way, when I sit on the throne – I'll remember how easy you made it for me.”

Arthur didn't respond.

Morgana laughed.

She rose to her feet and crossed over to where Gwaine was lying, slumped against a pillar.

“He's not like you and I, Arthur,” Morgana said. “He's so … _innocent_.”

She lifted Gwaine's head and patted his cheek lightly.

“Wake up, pet. It's time … they're arriving.”

As Gwaine stirred, Arthur saw flashes of light, and figures emerged from thin air drawing close to the centre of the abbey. Morgana stepped back from Gwaine and gestured for two men standing nearby to get him on his feet.

Arthur tensed his shoulders, dreading what was yet to come.

**~ ~ ~**

Gwaine awoke to someone gentle patting his face and as he opened his eyes, he saw Morgana above him, smiling with sickening sweetness.

“Wake up, pet,” she said. “It's time … they're arriving.”

Still half asleep, Gwaine felt himself being dragged to his feet. He and the two men restraining him were at the edge of a circle of people. All were cloaked and most hidden in shadow.

There was quiet muttering and talking go on amongst the crowd. From behind him, Gwaine heard a man's voice.

“Why are we here? Why has she summoned us? It's none but Emrys' right to summon the kin.”

“Where is Emrys?” a woman responded. “No one has heard of him since he hid his true self.”

“Something's not right,” the man replied.

The assembly fell silent as Morgana stepped out into the centre of the ring of onlookers. Gwaine sized her up as she surveyed the rest of the gathering. He'd heard the stories about Morgana – the witch who had tried to destroy Camelot as repayment for the death of her sister and then gone mad with power she could not control. The stories had not been accurate however – Gwaine had never imagined anyone this lost ... or this mad. Morgana smiled as she stood there, her dress mingling with the shadows behind her and the light from the torches casting her face in an eerie glow.

“Brothers and sisters of the Angyal,” she said. Her voice was no more than the softest of whispers, and yet every person in the abbey heard what she said. “We are gathered here tonight to witness a great event unfold, and the fulfilment of a prophecy.”

There were murmurs amongst the crowd, and Gwaine could see more than one pair of eyes looking in his direction. He shifted uncomfortably, destiny holding a knife to his back.

“In our presence tonight we should feel _honoured_ to greet the mighty Arthur Pendragon,” Morgana continued, the mockery so plain in her voice that Gwaine was surprised Arthur didn't retort. He remained where he was, however, kneeling, with his head bowed – seemingly unaffected by Morgana's words. Around the hall there were jeering laughs, and Gwaine recognised Cenred's tones. Anger boiled up inside him.

“Arthur the courageous, king of Camelot,” Morgana said and Arthur looked up at her, something in his gaze that Gwaine didn't understand. “How low the mighty can be brought,” she murmured.

“Many would once have said the same of you, Morgana,” Arthur responded – his voice brittle and broken.

Morgana blinked once, then turned away.

“Next on the list of our esteemed guests,” she said, regaining her show-man's air and turning in Gwaine's direction.

“May I present Gwaine, the strong.”

The murmurings in the congregation were louder this time as the men restraining Gwaine pushed him forward into the ring. Gwaine felt somewhat numb – wasn't that what he had titled himself all that time ago? The prophecy spoke of strength and courage … was it true?

 _Arthur the courageous … Gwaine the strong …_ Magic?

Morgana stepped up to him, looking him up and down, a somewhat demonic smile on her face.

“So like your father,” she said. “Did anyone ever tell you it was I who killed him?”

Gwaine felt like a bucket of icy water had been tossed over him. “No …” he stammered.

“Yes,” Morgana responded, “and in his last moments, I made sure to destroy all he held dear. Didn't you ever wonder why your family was not helped after his death? Perhaps Arthur could tell you …”

Gwaine looked towards Arthur, confused and angry; more angry than he'd ever been in his life.

“If …” Arthur said quietly, “if he was found bearing the mark of the Angyal – my father would have turned him away. Which … is I presume what you did.”

If Morgana's laugh was anything to go by – that was _exactly_ what she had done.

“Gwaine, I'm sorry,” Arthur said, his voice a croak.

“Oh he's _sorry,_ Gwaine – does that make you feel better? That he's sorry for all the wrongs done on so many by him and his kind,” Morgana said. Gwaine didn't move, his gaze fixed on Arthur.

“It was my father's crime,” Arthur said, his voice louder, bolder now. “Do the sins of the father fall upon the son?”

“That is how the saying goes, is it not?” Morgana said, walking over to Arthur as Gwaine's guards dragged him back to the edge of the circle. Gwaine was somewhat glad they did; he wasn't sure what he might have done if not.

Turning to face the group once more, Morgana stepped towards the altar.

“And lastly, may I present … Emrys.”

With a sweep of her hand, Morgana set the torches behind and around the altar ablaze and what was revealed in the light made Gwaine's heart catch in his throat.

Merlin, on his knees, arms spread out to either side and chained by the wrist to pillars. He was sagging against the chains and, it seemed, barely conscious. His shirt clung to him, soaked with sweat, and Gwaine could see dark red stains over his back and shoulders.

He tried to surge forward to get to Merlin but his guards dragged him back, laughing at his distress.

_What kind of monsters were these people? What had Merlin done wrong?_

The reaction from the watchers was mixed. There were many horrified gasps; some gave cries of outrage, but more than one gave a shout of triumph. Morgana was smiling.

But it was Arthur's voice that cut through the noise of the assembly.

“Let him go, Morgana. He has nothing to do with this.”

Morgana's laugh was derisive as she turned once again to face Arthur.

“Oh, Arthur … he has everything to do with this.” She turned back to Merlin. Gwaine could almost taste the tension in the air. “Don't you? _Emrys_?”

Merlin raised his head to look Morgana in the eye, and at first he seemed to hold a powerful presence until Gwaine noticed the clinking of the chains, showing how much Merlin was shaking from the effort of staying upright. It was he who broke the eye contact as his head and shoulders dropped down again so he was once more hanging against the chains.

“Those in the highest ranks of the Angyal,” Morgana said, beginning to circle Arthur where he knelt and seeming to ignore the assembly, “those of true descent, are given the ability to change their form – to truly become Angellai. Tell me, Arthur, have you ever seen an angel before?”

Arthur shook his head and Gwaine watched with growing apprehension. He didn't have the faintest clue as to what what was going on but judging from the way Merlin was trying pull against the chains, it wasn't anything good.

“Then let me show you,” Morgana said and her eyes glowed that fiery gold of magic. It was like watching shadows solidifying as the darkness around Morgana was drawn to her and shaped itself, arching upwards and outwards. Morgana spread her wings out – so wide a wingspan that they almost touched the pillars on either side of her. They were beautiful things, feathers that looked soft and silky and that layered over each other. Gwaine caught himself staring at the strong, perfect arch of bone and the way they folded around Morgana like they were part of her.

“I fail to see,” Arthur said, his gaze not on Morgana but on Merlin, “what this has to do with the torture of the innocent.”

“Innocent?” Morgana asked, her voice deadly and low. “He is no more innocent than you. You who persecuted and executed the _innocent_ of my kind for the simple fact of who they were born to be! He turned his back on his kind. He was supposed to be our leader – our guide. I have lived too many years, Arthur Pendragon, have seen too many die, have watched too many friends fall, have lost every single member of my family until I was the only one left!” Morgana was breathless, her anger, her _fury_ , twisting her features, her voice hoarse. “I have been forced to follow the orders of this _innocent_ man, he who cares not for me but only for his own ends. And I have waited, Arthur Pendragon, I have waited for this day - the day of my supposed doom. I have waited and now I say - _no more_.”

She turned to face Merlin, her hand raised, her eyes glowing with golden fire, her wings arching upwards to create a vision of terrifying beauty.

“ _Detego_.” A silence fell heavy upon the abbey, as if it were hung in a different dimension. As if the wind was still rushing along the coast yet made no sound nor effect on the land.

The silence was pierced by Merlin's ear shattering scream.

His back arched upwards and he stared unseeingly at the ceiling, his mouth opened wide. Along his shoulders, shadows were forming, and in a flash, wings burst out, tearing through flesh and the fabric of his shirt. All across his torso, strange runes burned in his skin, burning through his shirt until it hung in tatters around him. A piece of singed fabric fell away from his right shoulder and there the mark of the Angyal glowed.

Gwaine silently shook his head. He should have known. Here was Magic.

Merlin was the image of defeat. His shoulders slumped forward and the weight of his wings bowed him down against the chains. The runes on his torso still glowed but more faintly now, and the lash marks on his back stood out plain against his pale skin. His wings, unlike Morgana's, were tattered

and sparse along bones which look like they would snap in a breeze.

But if anything, Arthur looked worse.

He didn't look angry or betrayed. He didn't look at Merlin with hatred. He just look so _broken_. “It hurts doesn't it, Arthur?” Morgana crooned, “when someone you trust betrays you. Merlin and I are not so different. We are both true Angyal. Ageless, powerful – leaders of our kind. Merlin has been guiding us since the Great Wars and I, fool that I was, followed him. It didn't take me long to see his true nature. He rejected my sister and did not respond to her call for aid. On the day she died, she told me I must not let him conquer. He who had gone to Camelot, hidden his true self to be a servant to a prince. He who was so wrapped up in his idea of the New Age that he turned his back on his own kin.” Morgana took a shuddering breath, her eyes, on Merlin, filled with a deep, vengeful hatred.

“I went to Camelot also, to destroy all that he had built – to remind him who his true kin were – the people he was abandoning. But he got the better of me …”

“As he should have,” a voice from the edge of the circle spoke out, and an old man stepped into the ring. All heads turned his way, and Gwaine was surprised to see that he recognised the speaker. The man was from Camelot's court — the man who had spoken out against Uther after the prophecy.

Arthur looked as equally surprised as Gwaine to see someone he knew besides Merlin. His lips parted in an unvoiced question.

“He is your leader, Morgana,” the man, Gwaine remembered his name was Gaius, continued, “He had the right to stop your power if he thought it was for the good of the Angyal. You, however, have no right to treat him in this manner. He is your leader. Your kin. You have broken all of our laws-”

“Oh, Gaius, so _loyal_ aren't you?” Morgana cut through him, a smile on her lips.

Gaius caught himself, and swallowed back what might have been an angry retort.

“I will always be loyal to Emrys as he holds leadership of our people,” he replied slowly.

Morgana tilted her head on one side, eyes glittering with some untold secret.

“However long that lasts,” she responded.

Gaius narrowed his eyes but said nothing in return.

Morgana turned away from him, addressing the assembly as a whole.

“Brothers and sisters of the Angyal – tonight, I invoke an ancient right and call upon you to cast your vote. I ask you to make a pact with whom you believe to be the _true_ leader of the Angyal.”

She swiped her hand through the air, and under it, two deep basins materialized. They were made of stone and round the rim, runes were etched in a language Gwaine did not know.

Around the abbey, every person had fallen silent. Apparently Morgana had just gone a step beyond what everyone thought of her.

“Morgana, you do know … if the vote falls on Merlin's side,” Gaius said quietly, “you will die.”

“And if it falls on mine,” Morgana retorted, “Merlin will die. Giving up my life for the betterment of my kin is a risk I am willing to make.”

Gaius bowed his head, clearly understanding she had made her decision.

“Now is the time to cast your vote,” Morgana said, stepping away from the basins, towards the altar where Merlin was still hanging on the chains.

He just managed to lift his head and spoke in a shaking, brittle voice.

“Morgana … _please_ …”

Morgana did not listen to his plea and merely turned to face the basins.

Every person in the hall waited. Who would be the first?

Gwaine felt the incredible need to _do_ something. Merlin was going to die if the votes were cast in Morgana's favour. Surely he should do something. He was strength. He had a destiny with Merlin and Arthur, didn't he? Strength, courage _and_ magic. Merlin couldn't die.

_and strength breaks the walls of the past …_

Wat that what he must do? Move on from the pain of his childhood? The wounds that had scarred him so deeply and that he still carried with him here today?

As he was thinking, there was a great disturbance amongst the assembly as a man stepped forward.

He seemed young, his curly, dark brown hair curling round his ears and a determination in his eyes to prove himself.

He stepped up to the basins and removed a glove from his left hand, taking up his knife in his right.

“I, Mordred of the Western Sky, cast my vote for Morgana Pendragon.”

He sliced the blade of his knife across his palm and, clenching his fist together, squeezed a single drop of blood out. It fell into the left-hand basin.

From the silence in the abbey, Gwaine almost thought he heard it drop.

As Mordred stepped away, others in the assembly seemed to come to life. Gaius stepped forward and immediately cast his vote for Merlin, a determined set to his face and a dark challenge in his eyes as he faced Morgana.

She tilted her chin at his vote but said nothing.

Next was Kara, and she firmly cast her vote for Morgana.

Most who followed Gwaine didn't recognise, but some, like Cenred, he felt an overwhelming burst of hatred for. Cenred swaggered up to the basins, his eyes gleaming mockingly in Merlin's direction as he cast his vote and once he had done, he spoke.

“Long Live Morgana – _true_ leader of the Angyal.”

Gwaine was about to burst forward but his guards held him fast.

The first apparent shock for the assembly was when a man named Alator stepped forward and cast his vote for Merlin. Those who had voted for Morgana shouted out angrily but those who had sided with Merlin called out encouragement.

Morgana hissed, her eyes ablaze, but Alator turned and swept back into a dark corner of the abbey before she could say anything.

Gwaine lost count of the number of votes that were cast. The only thing he knew, with a growing sickening feeling in his stomach, was that Morgana was winning.

And Morgana knew it too.

The assembly was anything but quiet by the time a young girl named Aithusa stepped up to cast her vote. Her white wispy hair glistened in the torch light and her violet eyes were filled with fear as people shouted out. Morgana's supporters cheered her on but others pleaded and begged with her.

It didn't technically matter which side she voted for, it was just that she was the last person to vote and so once she had – Merlin would die. Morgana had won … it was over.

No. Gwaine would not – _could_ not let that happen.

What did it matter about a prophecy? What did it matter if the Angyal won? What did it matter if he had lost his home? His childhood? _Everything_?

The only thing that mattered in that moment was that inside him, there was still a young boy dreaming of becoming a Knight and wanting to do some _good_ in the world.

He could not watch a good man die.

“STOP!” he yelled, wrenching himself out of the grasp of his captors and plunging into the circle just as Aithusa was lifting the blade to cut her palm.

In a moment, the assembly had fallen silent.

“You cannot do this, Morgana,” Gwaine continued, every eye upon him. “I will not let you.”

In the trembling moment of stillness that followed, the only sound that could be heard was Morgana's high, demented laugh.

Gwaine realised people were no longer looking at him but at Aithusa who, with a shuddering gasp had drawn the blade across her hand.

The droplet of blood seemed to take an age to fall but when it splashed into Merlin's basin, the sound was like thunder and the ripples that fanned out from where it had struck, hit Gwaine like an earthquake.

It was over.

Except …

It would seem it was not.

The doors at the far end of the abbey blasted open as four figures raced into the abbey.

“For the love of Camelot!” a voice cried out. A voice which Gwaine knew.

_Percival?_

Chaos reigned.

Gwaine was blasted backwards off his feet and into a stone pillar behind him. People were shouting, some screaming and others fighting. Above him, Gwaine saw flashes of golden light and fire. This was magic.

Merlin. He needed to get to Merlin.

Rolling over and crawling through the masses of figures who had launched themselves into the frenzy, Gwaine headed towards the altar where Merlin was still hanging by the chains.

His face was deathly pale, and his eyelids flickered as Gwaine knelt beside him, gently checking for a pulse.

“Come on, Merlin,” Gwaine muttered. “Don't give up on me. Do some magic, get yourself better.”

Merlin's wheezing chuckle almost broke Gwaine.

“The chains,” he said, shaking them gently. “They're restraining my magic. And there's nothing I could do anyway, Gwaine. Aithusa cast her vote. It's over. Morgana's won.”

“No,” Gwaine choked through the tears that were fast falling down his cheeks. “No, you can't die – it's … it's not right.”

Merlin shook his head gently. “It's my fault – I abandoned my people. I failed them, I failed myself. I failed you and Arthur. The prophecy, everything I've been striving for. _When courage, strength and magic unite, nothing will stand in their path, not even death. The New Age will dawn in the fire of magic and the passing of the last High Priestess._ I found Arthur, I found you, I thought I'd fulfilled the prophecy … but my own failures have destroyed everything …”

Gwaine shook his head, wordless as he tried to think of something, _anything_ , which would keep Merlin fighting.

“There's still hope, there's always hope, Merlin. Hold on, please, for me,” he begged.

“I'm sorry,” Merlin croaked, his eyelids falling shut.

“Merl-” Gwaine's words were cut off as he was abruptly thrown backwards across the stone flooring of the abbey.

“Poor Gwaine,” came a snide voice above him. “Is everything going wrong?”

“Kara,” Gwaine spat, rolling over to look her in the face. He had a strange ringing in his ears and a sour taste in his mouth. The need for revenge roiled inside him.

“No one's here pick you up this time,” Kara said, a smirk blossoming across her face. “Strength has fallen.”

“What do you mean?” Gwaine frowned. “No one's here to pick me up? Since when have I had anyone?”

Kara's face hardened. “Always,” she spat back. “You had loving parents, then you had Percival sticking up for you, then all those friends. You had everything!”

“Wait,” Gwaine said, genuinely confused. “You were jealous of me?”

Kara froze where she stood.

“What do you think I had?” she asked. “Parents who were never home, who cast me out when they discovered who I was. No friends. Never anyone who was on my side. They put me in charge of watching you. So called _strength_ . You were _nothing_.”

“All this time … burning the yard, bringing Percival back to Camelot, catching me … you were just jealous?”

“No more,” Kara replied, echoing Morgana's words from before.

“You're right,” came a voice from behind Kara and as she turned, she gasped out, a blade having just been plunged through her heart. Percival dropped her to the ground, a look of cold detachment on his face.

“Percival?” Gwaine cried out, shocked and surprised as his friend pulled him to his feet.

“Are you OK?” Percival asked.

“Yeah …” Gwaine replied, not looking at Kara's still form on the floor. “Why are you here?”

“Merlin told us to come,” Percival responded. “Why would we refuse to come help a friend?”

He was smiling, and Gwaine looked round, spotting Will and Elyan smashing Cenred's head against a wall and Lancelot locked in a struggle with Mordred.

Mordred was looking in their direction and suddenly seemed to see Kara on the floor at their feet.

He gave a roar of outrage, tossing Lancelot out of his way with no more than a glow of his dark eyes and starting towards them. Then he seemed to stop himself and turned, a cruel smile on his face as he looked into the fray.

Gwaine followed Mordred's line of sight and saw Arthur, struggling as he attempted to fight off two attackers with his hands still bound behind his back.

As Gwaine watched, Mordred seemed to glide through the fight, his sword drawn as he approached Arthur who had his back turned and didn't see the blade coming.

Every person in that abbey seemed to hear Arthur's cry as the blade slid between the plates of his armour. Gwaine stood, dumbstruck.

Time seemed to hold a breath as heads turned and people shouted out.

A cold lump slid down Gwaine’s throat. He hadn't known these Angyal cared. Why would they mind a King dying, one whose family had caused nothing but oppression and misery? Why would they care?

But as Arthur dropped, falling to his knees and reaching out to Mordred to steady himself only to collapse when Mordred drew away, Gwaine understood.

This was Arthur, this was _courage_. Courage was slain … magic had fallen … For those who had believed in Merlin … there seemed to be no hope.

What was now to be _his_ fate?

Morgana's cry of delight echoed through the abbey. Many of the Angyal had fled or left. Many more lay dead. Morgana seemed not to notice as she hastened to Mordred's side.

“Well done, Mordred!” she said, looking down on Arthur with distaste.

Mordred pulled away from Morgana's touch, however, and dropping his sword, crossed the abbey to kneel by Kara's side and cradle her in his arms.

“I hope you're happy, Morgana,” he said thickly.

Then, he raised a hand to his shoulder and laying it over the mark of the Angyal, he chanted a rough spell and was whipped up into the darkness, Kara with him.

Morgana stammered out a cry of protest but there was nothing she could do; Mordred was gone.

She stood alone, fires flickering around her and the dead lying crumpled at her feet.

 _Queen of the dead_.

“ _Arthur_?” Morgana, Gwaine, Percival and any other person who happened to still be in the abbey, spun round to face the altar where Merlin's fragile voice had come from. He was looking at Arthur, lying at Morgana's feet, and his face was even more ashen that it had been before.

“He is dead, Emrys!” Morgana spat, “as you soon will be too.”

There was a pause as Merlin's head dropped and Morgana's smile grew, thinking she had won.

“No.”

Merlin's growl was deep, and as he raised his head once more his eyes were ablaze with golden fire. The chains began to shake.

Morgana's smile faltered.

“No. You will not conquer.” Merlin's voice was more of a dragon's roar than a human's voice. His wings were arching up, the bones strengthening, the feathers growing thick and soft, one over the other.

Gwaine stood transfixed.

Morgana took a step backwards, her face a mask of fear.

The chains round Merlin's wrists were shaking violently until, in a flash and a bang, they burst loose and Merlin rose to his feet, eyes still glowing, the ground under his feet shaking. His wings arched up high, brushing the ceiling.

The whole abbey seemed to be trembling.

“I am the rightful leader to the Angyal!” Morgana cried desperately, “I will defeat you – I will bring about the New Age!”

She shrieked as she was knocked backwards off her feet.

Crawling backwards over the stone, she tilted up her chin at Merlin.

“You will not destroy me like this. You've never had the power to do it. You were always so _weak._ ”

There was the rush of wind and a shaking, rumbling crack of the earth as the altar at the front of the abbey split in two.

When Gwaine looked back to Morgana, she lay dead on the floor.

Merlin crumpled even as he stood there. The gold faded from his eyes.

“ _No more_ ,” he breathed before stumbling and falling at Arthur's side.

There was a beat, and then people began talking. Will rushed over to Gwaine's side as Elyan helped Lancelot to his feet.

Gwaine crossed the abbey, ignoring the Angyal members already talking about who would lead them now. He ignored Will's voice, saying to come away, it was too late.

Gwaine didn't believe it.

_And on that day the triad will stand affirmed and so one in three shall become three in one._

He knelt at the side of his friends, his hands shaking as he took Merlin's hand and pressed his other hand over the wound in Arthur's side.

Then he waited.

He didn't hear the voices around him. Didn't sense time passing. All that mattered was Merlin and Arthur.

This wasn't how it was going to end.

He was strength. He was strength. But how could strength go on without courage and magic?

_One in three shall become three in one_

_He was strength … he was courage … he was magic …_

A soft glow began to grow in the middle of the three. It was golden and warm and spoke of life, rejuvenation, something better, something good.

Gwaine watched it, pulsating and livening, growing brighter all the time until it turned in a writhing mass – strands of light curled, one around the other. A single strand stretched out from the bunch and reached out to where Merlin lay, touching, caressing him gently over the heart.

When life returned to Merlin it came in one great shuddering gasp. His eyelids fluttered and Gwaine broke out into a smile.

“Merlin!” he said, squeezing his friend's hand. “Merlin, you're back!”

The people in the abbey had worked out what was going on and there was a great deal of shouting going on in the background. Gwaine ignored it. Everything was going to be OK.

Merlin shifted until he was kneeling next to Arthur. He looked dazed, but his eyes were wide with wonder as he took in the ball of light.

“Gwaine … what are you doing?” he asked incredulously.

“I don't know,” Gwaine replied honestly, “but I think it's good.”

Merlin dragged Arthur into his lap and laid his hand over Gwaine's on top of Arthur's wound, moving it gently until it lay over Arthur's heart.

“This is where life begins,” he said softly.

The light shone out even brighter, and the tendrils spread out across the abbey, shooting up into the air and spiralling round the columns. The air was filled with light, dancing sparks and ribbons of gold. Gwaine had never seen anything so beautiful.

_Nothing will stand in their path, not even death._

It was all coming true.

“Come on, Arthur,” Merlin said.

As if obeying a command, Arthur's heart began to beat beneath their fingertips.

“Yes!” Merlin cried and Gwaine began to laugh, giddy with triumph. Merlin joined in a moment later, tears running down his cheeks as Arthur lifted his head. A frown creasing his forehead ever so slightly.

“Did I die?” he asked confusedly.

“Don't worry, princess,” Gwaine responded. “I've sorted you out.”

Arthur attempted to swat away Gwaine’s grin with a flick of his hand. It only made Gwaine's smile wider.

The glow of the light was fading now but the abbey did not grow dim. Through the open doors, Gwaine could see the sun beginning to rise over the sea.

The first fingertips of dawn crawled into the abbey and set the place ablaze with sunlight.

Everything was going to be OK.

**~ ~ ~**

Sometime later, Gwaine found himself alone, standing at the cliff edge and looking out over the sea. The wind caught his hair and blew it back off his face, and the sun reflected off the sea in a shower of yellow and green. He felt somewhat like a god. Considering he had restored the dead to life that day, he was debating how much truth there was in that statement.

Arthur presently joined him. He was walking normally and felt no pain nor bore no scar from Mordred's death blow.

“I hear I have you to thank again for my life,” he said, standing beside Gwaine on the edge of the cliff and looking out to sea also.

“I think you owe me a drink,” Gwaine replied.

“I think I owe you a little more than that,” Arthur said humbly.

Gwaine snorted. “Look, I'm an easy man to please-”

“A knighthood?” Arthur suggested.

Gwaine's words caught in his throat.

“Your father was a Knight wasn't he?” Arthur carried on. “So you even have a legitimate claim – but after what happened last night, you more than deserve it.”

Gwaine stood, stunned into silence for a moment, the small child in the street jumping for joy inside his heart.

“I'd be honoured to serve you,” he said eventually.

Arthur nodded.

Gwaine jumped slightly as Merlin appeared at his other side. His wings were gone now and his shirt repaired. He looked bright and happy, surprising since he had died that day.

“Are you OK?” he asked Gwaine, and Gwaine nodded. He'd never felt better.

“I'm going to have to stay here for a while,” Merlin confessed. “I think it's time I actually led my people.”

“Yes, we've got to have a little chat about that, Merlin,” Arthur said, his tone without any real venom in it. Merlin swallowed in apprehension even so.

“Next time you decide to reveal yourself as an ageless sorcerer who can turn into an angel and lead the rebellion against my kingdom … you talk to me about it first,” Arthur said.

“Yes sire,” Merlin replied quietly.

“Good,” Arthur said, clapping his hands and turning away from the cliff edge. “Hopefully we won't have anything like this happening again then.”

He walked away, leaving Gwaine and Merlin alone.

“You need to look after him,” Merlin said. “I need to spend time with my people and I can't leave Arthur on his own.”

“Don't worry,” Gwaine replied nonchalantly, “the princess will always have me.”

Merlin covered a laugh, but then his face fell a fraction.

“After Uther's death, I came here to stop Morgana. I knew things had gone to far. Things just got a little out of hand, is all.”

“It turned out alright in the end,” Gwaine said, shrugging. “We won.”

“People died,” Merlin said, biting his lip and closing his eyes for a moment.

“It's in the past. This is where life begins,” Gwaine replied and Merlin nodded.

Gwaine clapped a hand on his friend's shoulder as he turned away.

“Oh, by the way,” Merlin said suddenly, “I forgot to ask. Who's going to look after you?”

Gwaine's eyes drifted from the sea to the abbey and then to the shade of the apple trees where Will, Percival, Lancelot and Elyan were sitting, sharing apples which appeared to have grown overnight.

Gwaine grinned.

“I've got an idea.”

* * *

**_Epilogue: A New Day's Dawning_ **

The splendid red cloak trailed behind him as Gwaine led the way up the street.

They'd left Lancelot on a street corner with a pretty girl called Guinevere, and Elyan was busy up at the palace discussing a range of infiltration tactics. It was just him, Will and Percival, but Gwaine wasn't fazed. He was sure he could keep Camelot running the same.

The main street was a hive of activity with shop vendors out selling their wares and some musicians filling the air with music.

Camelot was a different place.

They paused midway at the fountain up the street to get a drink and talk to some of the children who were sat there. Percival seemed to have a way with the young ones, and where he got those sweets from Gwaine wasn't sure but there was soon a crowd round him.

“Gwaine!”

Gwaine didn't recognise the voice, but the sound of his name made him turn his head. Coming across the road towards him was an old man with greying hair, leaning on a walking stick.

“You won't remember me,” the man said, thanking Gwaine with a smile as Gwaine helped him to sit down on the edge of the fountain. “I remember you though.” He chuckled lightly as he held up his hand. Around the thumb were faint scars in the shape of teeth.

“You're … you're that warden? You knew my name!” Memories of a dark night when the yard had burned flashed before Gwaine's eyes.

“I knew your father,” the old man replied, “that's why I recognised your charm. It has his seal stamped into it.”

Gwaine touched the chain at his neck.

“Well, I promised your father I'd look after you if ever he got into trouble – but when he died I lost touch with your mother. Then on that night – when I found you …”

“I bit you,” Gwaine replied, grinning in spite of himself.

“Well – you seem to have done alright for yourself,” the man responded, “your father would be proud.”

Gwaine nodded his thanks. The old man's words comforted him and healed a hole inside him. His father would have been proud.

“And,” the man sighed, “for what it's worth – I'm willing to offer to you anything you may want or need.”

“Thank you, but there's no need,” Gwaine said, shaking the man's hand.

Down the street, Arthur was walking with Merlin who had got back from some time with Aithusa. She had just grown her wings.

Will and Percival came and joined him as the old man hobbled away. Gwaine gave a small smile.

_He already had the world._

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is appreciated!! :)
> 
> And Angyal is Hungarian for Angel - if you were interested.


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